June the snowflake

It snowed.

If you’ve read me for awhile, you’ll know that (a), that means work was called off, although we are expected to “work from home,” and I remember a really bad storm two years ago where I proofread a giant deck–giant–and just as I was finishing it, Iris stepped on my laptop and erased all the changes I had made.

And that is why Iris is mounted on my wall today.

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shut upz

(Also, a deck is a presentation. It is important to never call anything by its name.)

This, by the way, is how Ms. Iris has spent her snow day, aka all days. Her big-game-hunting seems to have dwindled, although to her credit, now when I see something dead on my doorstep–mice, a bird, a hobo–I just assume Steely Dan killed it. I also assume he, and not video, killed the radio star.

I don’t give poor Iris any credit anymore. However, see above. How can she kill things if she’s nodded out on the horse or whatever is going on with her and all cats who can’t seem to stay awake more than 20 minutes at a stretch.

Anyway, they warned us snow was coming, and when did weather get to be such an exact science? Remember in the old days and all the jokes about the weatherman being wrong? Now it’s all, “Snow will begin in your zip code at 4:49 a.m.”

But anyway, yes, they warned us it was coming, so I left work on time-ish and dashed on over to daycare to get my child.

IMG_3678.jpgCareful 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.

IMG_3674.jpgAnyway, 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.

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Let’s gather thou things and get thou home, Edsel

I made an enormous pot of pumpkin chili on Monday, because you know what a chef I am, and yes, I just linked to a recipe. Who even am I?

Anyway, I knew I was okay with food in case I had a long winter like Laura Ingalls Wilder. And also like Laura, in her hit book Little Movie at the Shopping Center, I had the dilemma: Should I go to the movies with The Poet as we’d planned, and risk opening the theater doors afterward to see that we lived in a snowglobe?

I sound like a movie trailer. In a world

IMG_3679.jpgBut 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.

“Well, I didn’t know you’d eat five pieces and be done,” said The Poet, who apparently really is one of those “where does she put it all” kinds of people, because she gave that bucket the college try and she weighs about 72. Lithe, is what she is. And also currently full of popcorn.

Anyway we saw Lady Bird, and I will not bore you with the fact that we liked it, as everyone likes it, and I wish I could be rebellious and say, “Not enough titties” or whatever, but I cannot. As it was a sweet movie.

IMG_3683.jpgThen 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.

IMG_3689.jpgBut 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.

So I’m constantly checking my phone to see if work is streaming in, which really cockblocks my original plans of Bailey’s and hot chocolate all day.

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not so much wif dis bullchit

So, as I was saying 47 paragraphs ago, if you’ve read me awhile, you’ll know snow means I don’t have to go to work and also winter frolic pictures will occur.

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offend delicate sense biliteeez
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one dignity shot

IMG_3714.jpgIMG_3712.jpgIMG_3716.jpgIMG_3711.jpgMeanwhile, 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.

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da fuk?

IMG_3724.jpgI 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.

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get steeeellle fone. he going to menshun dis on next door. dis abominaa shun.

IMG_3740.jpgHe also begged to go out the front, as if maybe it hadn’t snowed in the front yard.

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goddammitz
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Coming home in defeat.

I wonder how many people are waiting for (b). See first paragraph. Then remember whose not-blog you are reading.

There you go.

Your Ice Princess,

June Cassadine

I forgot a damn title

In case anyone was worried sick, my presentation went fine. I had to present to the rest of the creatives–that’s what they call us: “creatives.” I had to show the rest of the CREATIVES why copy editing is necessary and why it takes so damn long.

We copy editors get a lot of, “Can you look at this real quick?” which is just exactly the opposite of what we do, so no. We can’t.

For the presentation, I wrote The World’s Worst Paragraph, with every error, every fact you have to research, every is-this-written-in-the-client’s-voice issue, and all the first person/third person woes you can imagine, to show how just one paragraph might take us two hours to complete.

“Can you look at this real fast? Just do a quick read.” Madre de Dios.

Anyway, it went well, and people laughed, which was my goal. I even used Oprah’s “A new day is ON THE HORIZON” line, so yay. Everyone needs more Oprah impreshes.

IMG_3593.jpgI 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.

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I’ve fatted out of the red shirt I’d planned to wear, which was unwelcome news. But you see I made up for it in accessories.

The Poet is going to the opera, as opposed to the Oprah, this Friday. They stream New York operas to the movie theater, and you can buy a ticket for nine hundred dollars and watch at the movies. I’d expressed interest in it, but in a stunning display of How We Both Are, I can’t join The Fancy Cello-Playing Poet this weekend, because that day I have drag queen bingo.

So.

In other news, I have this one cat named Steely Dan.

IMG_3558.jpgHave you heard about him? For he is ridiculous.

So far this year, it’s been damn cold. Un-The-South-y cold. And the only good part of that is that my wandering Jew stays home.

Steely Dan is not, in fact, a Jew. I always thought Francis might be. Edsel sure is. Steely Dan is all Presbyterian. Maybe working-class Catholic. With zero guilt.

Anyway, he’s been home a lot due to the cold, playing with that giant computer box that he enjoys so much that I’m loath to put it away, and fetching his mice till they all disappear and I have to go buy new ones. It’s lovely having him here, like a wayward husband who has a broken collarbone and has to stay in or something.

The point is, he chews. He chews clothes. He’s a clothes chewer. I’ve never had a cat who did this, but I’ve had other cats who left their mother too soon (See: Jewish Francis) and developed other odd allegedly soothing habits. Fran liked to chew plastic, and also paw euphorically at it while swinging his head from side to side like Stevie Wonder. He’d even eat plastic.

You’ve no idea how many times that cat swished into a room with dry cleaner bags half out his ass. Well. Like, twice. After that we got rid of all dry cleaner bags as soon as they got to the house. Remember when we all had to dry clean everything?

Have I ever told you the “Hello, Garden?” story? It involves doing an impression of an Asian accent, after all that yesterday.

…Actually, there used to be a punchline to this story, but now so many years have passed that I can’t remember it. Still, I used to live in Seattle near this place called Ace Cleaner, which was technically Ace Cleaners but they’d always call themselves Ace Cleaner when they called. And called they did, as I was never getting my clothes once they were ready. Because cost.

As a busy important receptionist at the time, a welcome addition to my wealthy existence was having to dry clean business clothes, which I had to wear every day. I can wear jeans to work now, and it’s funny to think of the long purple blazers over long black skirts because hello ’90s, and also the black hose hose hose out my ass like Fran’s dry cleaner bags. So many pair of hose. We MAY have had casual Friday, but I don’t think so.

Anyway, I was forever taking stuff to Ace Cleaner and then getting the fairly annoyed call. “Hello, Garden. This Ace Cleaner. Your clothes are ready” answering machine message. Because hello ’90s.

They always called me by my last name, but slightly mispronounced. And then I’d go there and just pick up one item, as it was all I could afford. I’m certain I wasn’t annoying at all.

I think they paid me $21,000 a year at that job, and insisted I wear fancy clothes that needed to be dry cleaned. What a rip. They DID pay for my bus card every month, though, so that’s good.

Oh my god, anyway.

So of course we don’t KNOW what tragedy befell Steely Dan’s motherless self, but we DO know that those two adorable gay college students saw a teensy, barely able to walk yet, barely legal all nude Steely Dan was toddling up the sidewalk in the rain two summers ago. So he left mom at a young age for sure, and thank heavens those boys took him in and cared for him, not knowing he’d grow up to be a panther with commitment issues.

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steeeelee heer now. just enjoy momint.

So, whether it’s because his mom left too soon or he’s just a dick, Steely Dan eats clothes, a realization it took me awhile to have. I was all Ace Cleaner with my “just one” item of clothing suddenly having holes a’plenty, and I’d be all, that damn dryer.

That damn moth.

That damn hole punch I got stuck in and forgot.

Eventually I figured it out. I may have actually seen him ecstatically chewing chonies or whatever, but in general he tends to do his clothes chaw when I’m not around. It’s a private moment for The Dan.

So at this point, I’ve Anne Franked my clothes to the Nth degree. I hide the laundry baskets in the spare-room closet with the real door. Yes, he can open doors, but he hasn’t figured out that particular door contains a clothing smorgasbord yet.

I also keep my bedroom door shut AND a spare medicine cabinet–something we all have–shoved against the doors to the closet in there, as they are swingy, hello-I’m-in-a-Western double doors with no knob, for some reason.

Every once in awhile I’ll nap with the bedroom door open and I’ve heard from time to time a soft shove, and there SD will be, just starting to move the damn medicine cabinet to get to his closet.

Because the thing is, see, he loves my bedroom. It’s his home. It’s where he spent his childhood.

When he was a kitten, I kept him back in that room a lot. His canned kitten food was presented to him there, and while he ate, I had to shut the door so Edsel wouldn’t burst over and eat all the kitten food.

Then, unlike other kittens who’ve resided in my room, he was content to leap onto the rocking chair and just hang out alone rather than find a way to get back to all of us in the rest of the house. We matter little to SD, in the grand scheme. And now his goal in life is to reside in his old room, maybe casually meander to the food fest that is behind my swinging Western door closet.

So I’ve been careful to not let him have more clothes to eat, and I’ve even given him a whole SD Chewing Shirt that he’d already ruined. One month my Stitch Fix came, and I left it all in the box, and he got in there and helped himself to a whole shirt that I had to then buy already ruined.

So after I fed him poison razor blades and ran him over repeatedly with the car and he sprang back to life like the Friday the 13th guy, I gave him the damn shirt to chew at his leisure.

News flash: All the time, every moment, is Steely Dan’s leisure.

THE POINT IS, somehow this week, I left out ONE SOCK, one of my new soft Christmas socks with the rubbery stuff on the bottom so I don’t slide, and I discovered SD’s assigned shirt that he’d LEFT ALONE, next to my NEW SOCK chewed to bits.

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fuk yew

And that is why I drink.

Love,

Sockless June

P.S. My new computer has new effects on its webcam, a feature I’ve been wanting to show you and forget to show you. You know how I am. See above.

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Comic-book effect
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Andy Warhol effect
Photo on 1-6-18 at 8.56 PM #4
Steely Dan is evil effect

In the stars

You know what MY problem is (everyone gets out their Giant Scroll of What’s Wrong With June), is that moderation is stupid. I mean, it would appear that I think moderation is stupid. Signs POINT to me thinking moderation is stupid. Except when it comes to exercise.

The woman who sits next to me–and I’m sure at some point I gave her a blog name but who can keep track of 11 years of blog names. Anyway, the woman who sits next to me, Alex, received a giant box of Dean & Deluca treats for Christmas. I think a client or a vendor or someone gave it to her.

page_1.jpgThen she left for the world’s longest Christmas break.

“Did, um, Alex say anything about these treats?” I wondered, one hungry afternoon in late December. As if all my afternoons aren’t hungry. And by “hungry,” I don’t mean Biafra hungry. I mean Bored White Girl hungry.

“Oh, she did. She sent an email about them. Didn’t she include you?”

Humph. See above re No One Likes Me At Work.

“She said the treats were for all of us, and to have at them.”

Well.

Naturally, I opened the good stuff first, right? The obvious dark-chocolate-covered hazelnuts, the shelled pistachios, the tin of 27-year-old muscled bald men of color.

By the time she returned, her hazelnuts were mysteriously lacking. “Oh, no, that’s fine. I told everyone to eat them,” she assured me. “Didn’t I include you on the email?”

Humph.

So here it is, early January, and I’m starting to break into the weird stuff.

And that is how my addiction to Sanded Starfish began.

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Okay, first of all, pretentious Dean ampersand Deluca, if that is your real name, they’re sugared gummy candies shaped like stars.

But oh, man, do they have flavor. Orange is distinctly tangerine-y. I’ve no idea what the others are supposed to be, but I can tell you the famous flavors Blue and Green are to die for.

[Five sanded starfish are five Weight Watchers points. Careful maths will reveal that they are approximately one point per sanded star.]

“Haaa aaaayone ried a arfish?” I asked the room at large, around a mouthful of sanded starfish, which is now my Official Work Language®.

Turns out, no one wants to try them, or if they have, they are not nearly as charmed as I. Which works in my favor.

Meanwhile, back at my ranch, four men were working on m’house yesterday. My ’50s ranch house, which is always in need of something.

IMG_3517.jpgWas not at all annoyed to pull up to my own house and have the driveway so full I couldn’t get in.

Alf was over to put the clothes rod back up in my closet. But for months he’s been telling me I need to fix the fan in my bathroom. Since Day One at this house 10 years ago, the combination fan/light switch/outlet has not worked in that bathroom, and at this point I’m just used to the idea of charging my toothbrush in the kitchen.

I’ve had two other men over to try to fix it but it never gets really fixed.

So I got a sherpa and some trail mix, parked, and hiked over to base camp, aka my house with all the men parked at it–and I hope that’s what Ned thinks it’s like here day and night. All the men parked all over the place, just lounging in my home, waiting to service me however I see fit.

Anyway, first of all, when I walked in, good watchdogging, Edsel.

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Welcomes to howse of mom, strangurs! we gotz starfishz. they sandee.

For the love of all…I SWEPT THAT FLOOR YESTERDAY. Okay, maybe day before yesterday. Still. I give up. Plus, is that Kleenex on my robe? I am happy to report that I washed a Kleenex this past load of laundry, and just this morning was trying to PICK IT OFF all the clean clothes.

Anyway. The electrician used to be a fireman, and he brought two young firemen with him, who are learning how to electrician or whatever, and why is it that I have firemen over more often than even the firehouse?

They were all very nice, and they all had dogs–big manly dogs such as Labs, so Edsel was a refreshing change for them, I like to think.

The good news is, the electrician found the problem! It had to do with the fuses or whatever, outside. Something was loose or missing or something. Simple fix, a big $98 total, and boom, they were done. “It’ll work now. I can pretty much guarantee it,” said the electrician, scratching ecstatic Edsel’s manly head.

One of the young firemen was also admiring Steely Dan, who was clearly showing off for company: fetching his mouse, leaping cleanly in and out of the computer box.

IMG_3540.jpgAs 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.

Also, one of the keys of the keyboard was loose. The Q. From all those letters to Queer Eye For the Straight Guy, I suppose.

The point is, I knew I wouldn’t get all $155. When the young firefighter was admiring the cat, I told him what the box was for. “You don’t need a 2011 Mac, do you?” I asked him.

Turns out, he did! And he was so excited! I warned him that thing was slow, but he seemed unconcerned. So that was my good deed for yesterday.

The point is, with all these men crawling about, I was sort of self-conscious about what I ate for lunch. I’d done Pure Barre earlier in the day, so what I WANTED for lunch was that big slab of meat that tips over Fred Flintstone’s car. What I had was Amy’s Organic Vegetable Soup.

While I was pretending to be dainty, I got an email from our receptionist at work.

You know, work doesn’t pay for my phone, and why I decided to include work email on my own phone is beyond me. Anyway, she wondered why the newsletter wasn’t out yet, and of course (Big Book of June Events page 409) I gave up editing the company newsletter way back.

“Holsteder and Frapdorp run the newsletter now,” I informed her, and right when I wrote the two editors’ last names like that, it occurred to me that their names are sort of …comical together.

“Did you get the email from the receptionist wondering where the newsletter was? I forwarded it,” I asked Frapdorp when he walked past my desk yesterday.

He had.

“You know, the two of you, with your names together. They’re such unusual names. You’re like a…I don’t know. Like a pretentious candy company or something.”

Frapdorp paused.

“A pretentious candy company. Is that even a thing? Is that even a genre? A pretentious candy company…” he was getting ALL READY to make fun of me. I could see him winding up.

And that, my faithful readers, is when I was able to grab my nearly empty tin of SANDED FUCKING STARFISH and shove it at him victoriously. I was trying to fill in the gaps that stupid vegetable soup had left in me.

What I lack in willpower I make up for in ready tins of sanded starfish.

Sweetly,

June

Astro surf and turfing

I woke up at 2:53 a.m. today, with a migraine. I attribute this to having gotten up at 5:30 yesterday, to go to damn Purrrrre Barrrrre, and one wonders why I think I need to work out when I already look Like This.

Anyway, my sleep pattern was messed up, which is a migraine trigger, and whatever, I had one, hooo care.

I got out of bed and hunched over to the kitchen, and I feel the need to hunch when I’m not feeling well because my Aunt Kathy always does that when she’s not feeling well, which by the way is around 270 days a year. She’s a professional not-feeling-well-er.

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deer god. wat edzul eber do to deserbe.

The point is, I took my medication and hunched back to bed, where Edsel and Jodie Foster awaited me, and while I was trying to get back to sleep,

boop!

That damn kitten kept booping my face. boop! Oh my god, annoying.

No matter how many times I…gently placed her orange bitch-ass down the bed, and yes, I did want to hurl her with all my might, she kept coming back and

boop!

Here is why I’m insane. I kissed her little walnut head before immigrating with my pillow over to the spare bedroom. That damn kitten drove me out of my own bed, into the vast desert of the spare bedroom, and I still had to kiss her.

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okay, she cute in theeeery, but not that irresist.

In the spare bedroom, Steely Dan was lounging across the pillows. Having spent most of my week with Two-Ounce Tillie, up there, all of a sudden his already-enormous self seems even enormous-er, and he also seems this solid paragon of dignity.

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it troo. also, good pikktur, mom. wat dis be, mom blawg circa 2009?

I kissed his coconut head and settled in to sleep. When,

BOOP.

That asshole booped me in the face, with all 182 pounds of him.

HE’S NEVER BOOPED ME IN THE FACE EVER BEFORE.

“STEELY DAN,” I said, irritated with the world. He touched his wet cold nose to mine before curling up against me and falling asleep, where as soon as he was unconscious I injected him with lethal gasses.

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and yet, heer steelee be

And I’m sorry all my stories are about cats lately. It’s all I’m surrounded by. I’ve all of a sudden become the old lady with cats.

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When did my neck get rings? When did I join the Ringling Brothers on my neck?

The other exciting news is I got my roots dyed yesterday, at lunch, which by the way is super relaxing and you’re not over there nervously checking the clock or anything.

We also had a happy hour team thing after work for a particular account I work on, but I already WENT to one for a DIFFERENT account last week, and just now I typed “last” wrong, and my computer autocorrected it to “astroturfing,” like that’s a thing I say just all the time. I think I can honestly say that is the FIRST time I ever said “astroturfing,” so good going, computer. Good smart-ting.

Anyway, I didn’t go. I was exhausted.

Also, I’ve been invited to two things, one on Christmas Eve and one on Christmas Day, and both hosts say, “Don’t bring anything,” and is that true? What do real people do?

Both are married couples, two kids each, except the Xmas Eve couple has two teenage daughters and the other couple has two little kids. Your thoughts, Hobson?

Also, I’m getting together with Jo and Kit on the 27th, and all of a sudden Jo’s all, Oh I got you two the cutest thing and I was all, “WE’RE GETTING EACH OTHER THINGS?”

“Oh, just regift something,” said Jo, as if I have a whole closet of Gifts That Didn’t Work For Me.

Your thoughts, Hobson? Do you wish I’d quit saying that? It’s from Arthur.

The entire time I’ve been writing you, I’ve been scarfing these chocolate-orange-ball Christmas cookies my mother made me, thereby eliminating all of the work I did at Pureé Bar yesterday. Orange you glad I ate chocolate cookies?

I’d better go. I have to shower, and my whole body hurts, and also migraine hangover, plus also my face was booped repeatedly and Dear People Who Don’t Have Cats Who Are Moments From Annoying Me:

It’s when a cat hits your face with a velvety paw, not to inflict pain. It’s really more a claws-in sitch. They just want to play, so they boop boop boop your face over and over again, and you all of a sudden get how someone could abuse an animal.

Sincerely,

Jone

P.S. Oh, HELL. This is Chunky Cherry, and seriously, Clinique, what’s with all the fat names lately? I have ZERO MAKEUP on again, and I’m SORRY. It’s the MORNING.

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That color really brings out your broken capillaries.

 

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.

 

 

June does her makeup and talks to you. Yes, again.

It will be 11 years Friday that I’ve done this dang…website. Other than June’s Live Sex Tape, I’ve pretty much done it all on this thing.

[Considers June’s Live Sex Tape.] [Step one: Get sex life.]

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.18 AM.jpgWhen 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.

Step one: Get one chubby stick.

Hey, mom. [Sees mom in her head. Sees mom’s pursed lips. You know what would unpurse them? A Chubby Stick, by Clinique!]

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.21 AMSince 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.

Oh, June. With the play on words.

So I started up there with my grocery-store-purchased Revlon Brow Fantasy, and if you’re really having fantasies about eyebrows, consult your nearest medical professional.

I am using Light Brown, or as the fancy people call it, Brun Clair. Why is my eyebrow pencil also French? Do a lot of your French folk schlep to the grocery store for their cosmetic needs?

In real life, when I have the dollars, I prefer the Anastasia brow products called DIPBROW™. Look at me, even adding the TM.

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.27 AM #4Laura 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.

Also, since I moved my computer in my quest to photograph anything OTHER THAN THE RAYS OF THE SCREAMING SUN, please note my poor succulent back there. It seems to be drooping. As you can see, it’s not like it’s NOT GETTING ANY SUN, so does anyone have succulent advice? I know to not water it often; that’s why I HAVE a succulent. Have you met my attentive nature?

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.32 AM #2Laura Mercier Secret Concealer for Undereye. It’s not a secret anymore.

I wonder if Laura Gellar and Laura Mercier duke it out in my cosmetics bag?

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.34 AM #2I 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.

Do I make that joke every time? What do you want from me? I’m an old woman. Also, note my gray eye shadow and my gray roots do not match. Apparently there really are 50 shades of gray.

Photo on 12-13-17 at 8.38 AM.jpgI 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.

Anyway, Revlon ColorStay eye pencil in Black/Brown, or as they also like to call it, Noir/Brun. Okay, Revlon. Get over your not-French self.

Followed by DiorShow Blackout mascara, and the color is apparently 099. That’s warm and personal.

Ninety-nine. I’ve been waiiiting so long. Oh, 99, where did we go wrong. Oh, 99.

We need to hear more from Toto. Whatever happened to them? We cast aside our musical heroes so fast. Toss ’em aside and call them 099.

Incidentally, while I’m writing to you and doing my makeup, what I know for sure is that eating six Jeno’s Pizza Rolls for breakfast is not good for you.

That is why I’m having six Totino’s Pizza Rolls.

IMG_2616.jpgTAAA-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.

What’s not okay: gray fucking roots.

So there it is: A simple makeup routine that, if you also blog about it and photograph it and eat pizza rolls during it, takes a mere hour and a half.

IMG_E2612.JPGI 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.

Fine with me. I hate being in charge around here. Let THEM figure out how to afford flea meds for four.

Talk to you tomorrow, when we shall delve into the exciting world of Clinique’s Whole Lotta Honey.

WAYYYYYYY down inside. WOman. Youuuuu neeeed.

LOOOOOOOOOOVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV….

XO,
June Fig

June wraps up her trip; bored nation rejoices

If you’re just getting back from your Thanksgiving holiday, and I say “holiday” like we’re all British, there are several days of my posts for you to catch up on and I wish you luck. I wish you luck mucking through all my ins and outs.

For the rest of you, who kept up with me like good readers, here’s the rest of my trip back to Michigan…

IMG_E2204.JPGWhen 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.

Oooo, speaking of lipstick…

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Both on the way to Michigan and on the way back, I may have looked with rapt interest in the Mac store at Chicago airport, noting these lipsticks were all for sale as one unit, a unit someone might like, if someone were trying to determine what June Would Like For Christmas, a query that’s burning in the brains of just er’one.

I’d look like an asshole in the second-from-the-left one. That burnt orange look does not appeal. But speaking of needless purchases, isn’t it Cyber Monday? Wouldn’t this be an excellent time to link to Amazon, so you can purchase like a mo?

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.

But I digress.

On Friday night of my trip to Michigan, my Aunt Kathy had us over for tacos, and by “my Aunt Kathy,” I mean my Uncle Bill made tacos.

IMG_2211 2.jpgSome families form a conga line. We form a taco line. [Insert taco/Katie-the-lesbian joke here]

IMG_2212.jpgMy 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.

Do you remember that guy Ward who I went out with like three times or something, and then it didn’t work out? He texted me over the holiday (British), and I answered him, telling him how all the women in my family prattle endlessly and all the men are sort of quiet and introspective. Okay, not my Uncle Leo. But the other men. Anyway, below is yet another piano-playing video, this time not horrific like the last one, where one of the men is being deep and yet you can hear women prattling in the background. I recorded this for his listening pleasure. I think it was around then that he stopped texting.

In summation.

IMG_2217.jpgAfter 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.

Maybe had I not been named after her I wouldn’t have migraines. Maybe they could have named me after a tennis star or something instead. Step one: Get tennis star in family.

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fukking schtopz

Also, here is my aunt’s cat, Tom Thumbs. Did not at all follow Tom Thumbs around like an idiot, scooting across floor with phone out like a moron. That would not be fittin’. Did not at all call him kitty head or sweet kitten or kitty hitchhiker kitten face wif thumbses.

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Finally, it was Saturday and time for me to go, but not before Hulk rejected me for sports. Also, Dear June: *of.

IMG_2239.jpgI 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.

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hooo gif shit

IMG_E2246.JPGThe other, more normal, cats were happy to see me, in their cat way. “wee not say hi, but we sleep on you a lots.”

The cat-sitter told me that every day, SD and Lily would come blinking down the hall, like, O, do someone bee heer? And every time, Iris was asleep in the dog bed.

Speaking of my cats, I was writing you in my regular fashion, not that I’m pooping, when I saw this shadow…

IMG_2264.jpgHere’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.

IMG_E2274.JPGIMG_E2275.JPGAnd 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.

IMG_2278.jpgAsshole. Why do I love him so? This sums up all my relationships.

I’d better get to work, which I am actually looking forward to doing. Tomorrow is my mammogram, which has not haunted and terrified me since I made the appointment or anything. Do you all know from EMDR? It’s a kind of therapy they do for trauma. I really think I should get EMDR so I’m not so

EFFING

INSANE

during mammogram week. Am considering.

Meanwhile, here’s an Amazon link again, in case it inconveniences you to scroll up. I want to make it was easy as I can for you, so that I will become a millionaire. Also, I got my new credit score today, and it’s in the high 700s.

You know, at the beginning of the year, I made the New Year’s resolution to fix my finances, and I actually did it. I worked freelance jobs ALL YEAR LONG. And I got my debt cleared. And I upped my contribution to my four oh wonk.

I still don’t make a lot of money, but at least I don’t have debt haunting me. Just mammograms.

Anyway, here’s your second Amazon link.

Resent. Also, wish Crazy Cat Lady ornament did not look so much like self.

Sanely,

Juuun

P.S. Someone will ask, so I will assure you I got the Eds from daycare Sunday, and he was…enthused about seeing me.

IMG_2249.jpgI had a migraine (thanks, world), so he spent the entire day with his snout up on my berobed self. No, seriously. THE ENTIRE DAY.

IMG_2254.jpgSteely Dan made barf sounds from across the room and rolled his orange cat eyes.

1136 words, dear god,

Jooon

June’s Iron Fish of Discipline

Last night, Edsel was acting weird.

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Eds, when he’s not being a nutbar. Also, try to have some teeth, Eds.

I understand that doesn’t narrow it down much. But he did the thing I really hate, where he was lounging in his chair, then sat up straight and started BOOF-ing. And looking at the back door.

BOOF! His hackles weren’t up, but he was EXTREMELY alert. “Edsel, stop it,” I said. I always say this, like getting him to act…not alert will make whatever’s upsetting him go away.

Because in my mind–and, oh, you really don’t wanna go in there–he’s acting this way because the Manson family is out back. Because the devil is hobbling around back there, on his way to my attic, like at the beginning of The Exorcist.

Why did the devil have to enter through the attic? Don’t you think he’d have had more clout than that? “Man, I want to possess this child, but I can’t get past the bouncer. Better go in through the vent up here.”

So Edsel would not stop being…alert, despite my bone-chilling command, and I really have control of this dog. Eventually, I let him out, not without worrying that once I opened the back door that Freddie Mercury Kruger would burst in.

See. Why do I always think of great Halloween costumes such as Freddie Mercury Kruger the second Halloween is over? I have mentioned about 87 wonderful cat names/Halloween ideas through the years, and aren’t ANY of you keeping a list?

He ran to the right, which is not his style. The right side of the yard is for pooping; everybody knows that.

IMG_1935.jpgHe never poops first. First he runs straight back, in order to bark at Jackie the gaybors’ Greyhound, or at the small white fluffy thing in the adjacent yard, whose name escapes me but is inevitably Sugar or Sassy or Desdemona. Okay, money is on Sugar.

Then he goes to the left, to his pee tree, and FINALLY to the right if there is a poop need. And let’s say there’s the rare poop emergency, something he must address straightaway, even before Searching For Jackie Gaybor. Then he poops over to the left, by his pee tree.

Look, I don’t make up the rules. I just observe them. Also, I’m probably gonna need a new tree soon.

The point is, that dash to the right got my attention. So I flicked on the light, prepared to die, and looked in the right of the yard.

It was a kitty! And not one of mine!

Yet.

IMG_1936.jpgThis poor black-and-white cat, a huge specimen, was up in this sort of spindly weed tree over by Poop Station Number Two. Over by Mrs. Brown’s Dropoff Point. And no, he is not still up there this morning, which won’t stop someone from saying, “I don’t see the cat, June. Where’s the cat, JOOOB?”

“KITTY!” I said, to the jaguar-sized black-and-white creature, whose eyes were glowing, horrified, at the sight of Edsel glaring up at her.

I’d forgotten that other cats would fear the Eds. “Edsel, go inside.” He dutifully did, and my next class of June’s Iron Fish of Dog Discipline starts soon.

Iron Fish. Goddammit.

“It’s okay, kitty,” I said, and if I had a dime for every time I’ve tried to reassure a horrified cat that things are okay. You know who never believes you that things are okay? Horrified cats.

Also, how did he hear a CAT in the yard? I understand that dog is endowed in the ear department, but CATS DO NOT MAKE NOISE, one of their more positive traits, along with being down to earth and making great quiche.

Also, also, Steely Dan was back there. In the yard. Completely unconcerned that a giant speckled cat was in his weed tree. This lead me to believe that they are friends, and perhaps stomp largely through the neighborhood together, one seeing things in black and white and one appreciating the gray areas.

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o steeleee god, mom. get lyfe. also, make bed.

The point is, Piebalderdash LEAPED off the weed tree, then TORE through the yard, which I am sorry to tell you prompted Edsel to DASH out the house and CHASE the poor cat in a circle, which lead me to shout, “EDSEL, you LOVE cats!”

Piebalderdash got out through squeezing under my fence and into Peg’s yard, a trick all cats seem to know instinctively. I sincerely hope whomever buys Peg’s house does not mind cats. Or own a cat-hating Rottweiler or anything.

This leaves me with several questions. Several issues of our time.

  1. Who is this cat? How is it I’ve never seen him despite walking this damn neighborhood every damn day since 2008?
  2. How did Steely Dan meet him? Are they really friends or just coworkers?
  3. Could Piebalderdash be SD’s lover? Is Steely Dan like a really butch gay guy cat?
  4. Would cat-loving Edsel have really eaten that cat had he caught it? Or was it more of a game?
  5. How would a piebald cat fit into my color scheme? Would I, in fact, have to get a black-and-white dog in order to balance things out?
  6. What is wrong with me?

I guess today I should check NextDoor for missing cat notices. You know I like looking on there anyway, cause it’s such a passive-aggressive fest anyway.

“I’d just like to THANK the person who…”

“To the person who was playing music at 2 a.m. last night…”

“Who is parked in front of my house?” Really? WHO GIVES A FUCK?

The lady who’s obsessed with her neighbor’s affair has dissipated, mostly because the other neighbors told her she was a terrible nosy person for (a) reporting every time the man in the affair stopped by (he had the nerve to, yes, park in front of her house) and (b) photographing said car AND SAID GUY as he got into and out of his auto.

I mean, she IS a terrible person with no life, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want updates.

I like how I say this woman has no life, but I droned on 1,000 words about a cat in my yard.

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This is what they throw at you when you walk into Lowe’s. Ugh. This is the very opposite of what’s in my head. Again, you don’t wanna go in there.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I leave for Michigan tomorrow–I work only one day this week, which was dumb, because even with my days off this week, I have five and a half days left of vacation, and I will probably not use them. So I shoulda taken today. But now I have a whole project I have to do TODAY, so I can’t, like, call in and say, “I’m using a vacation day!”

Ah, well.

Talk at you.

Everything looks worse in black and white.

June

P.S. I FINISHED MY BOOK! THAT FREELANCE BOOK I WAS FREELANCING ON FREELANCINGLY!!! IT ONLY GAVE ME THREE MIGRAINES!!!

There will be another waiting for me the minute I get back.

Enter rambling

You know what I want for Christmas? One of those paper towel holders that you stand up on your counter.

^^^^^AMAZON LINK!^^^^^^

Several months ago, one of you said, Hey, June. Why don’t you become an Amazon Associate to earn more money? And so I did. I put up a permanent link to Amazon on my sidebar (See? See it? Are you looking at my side bar? [slap] Keep your eyes off my side bar. Perv).

And sometimes I’d throw in an Amazon image here in the post that, if you click on it, you get to Amazon, and say Amazon one more time.

And by the way, for some reason I can’t ever put a link to Amazon with words on it. Like, one of these…

//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ac&ref=tf_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=booko04-20&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B000G62YE8&asins=B000G62YE8&linkId=2f1089c847f0610c1fab92ac91e31505&show_border=false&link_opens_in_new_window=false&price_color=333333&title_color=0066c0&bg_color=ffffff

See.

THE POINT IS, I am forever forgetting to add links to Amazon in my posts.

  1. So, click these images
  2. You’ll get to Amazon.
  3. If you shop after you’ve clicked over,
  4. I get cash.
  5. Cold cash.
  6. Don’t you have Christmas shopping to do or whatever?

Forgetting to add Amazon links is why I don’t have money. I’m not ambitious enough.

And speaking of numbers, yesterday I was talking to a reader who said, “The number of comments you get don’t represent how many readers you get.”

….!

Of COURSE it doesn’t. Did she really think that 50 people read me a day? That’s so sad. Also, I forget that not everyone works in social media the way I do.

Anyway, I told her how many readers I get normally, and then she looked at how many comments I get normally.

I rarely check how many comments I get. I just get emails from you when you comment and go, “Heh, yeah” or “HAHAHAHAHA” or “Oh, fuck YOU” or whatever. Anyway, she figured out it’s like one comment for every 35 or 52 readers or something.

It was maths. Reader, can you remember the exact ratio? Cause you know how I get with numbers. They come to me on gossamer wings and flitter out my head dusting rose-gold glitter.

IMG_1871.jpgNot-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…

IMG_1872.jpgBelievable. Do you beLIEVE in life after love {after love after love}

I guess mostly what I did today was enter here rambling, and talking about Amazon and numbers and hooo care, then plunk you into the middle of my yesterday and not be linear at all.

I once took an African literature class, which is something you do in college when you’re all high on the gange, which actually I never was but roll with it, so to speak. Anyway, I read a story where this person wandered a village, and each hut had a number, and he’d visit Hut 4 then Hut 86 then Hut 3, and all the American people were all OH MY GOD VISIT IN ORDER.

Which was a thing we didn’t even NOTICE was bugging us till the professor pointed out we were being, I don’t know, not African or something.

So thank heavens at least 10 of my 50 readers are in Africa.

IMG_1860.jpgAnyway, 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.

And here’s what happened. Yesterday after said vet appointment, I got on Facebook and I was all Diagnosis: Fleas. And then I said the vet had to prescribe something.

This was followed by 939549323 comments with people telling me what flea medication to get.

“But I–”

“See, I already–”

“Yeah, I got–”

I give up.

I also, on Facebook, asked everyone to not IM me, and one person I don’t actually know in real life wrote, “Oh, but I IM you to show my eternal love” or whatever, and I wrote back and said, “Yeah. that’s great, but an unbalanced person contacted me that way, twice, and now every time my IM thing lights up, I get shaky and sick thinking she’s back.”

I understand, she wrote.

The very next day she sent an IM. No apology, no “I know you don’t want IMs,” nothing. And it was a goddamn animated thing about Christmas. Hey, unfriend.

I mean, I could not have expressed my needs and why I had them more clearly. Jesus.

IMG_1878IMG_1874IMG_1875Also, 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 TRIPPED over him with one foot, then STOMPED terrecktly on his tail and oh, did he HISS and run off.

Did you ever chase after a cat you were just accidentally mean to? It’s so fruitless.

“I’M SORRY STEELY DAN! I LOVE YOU HONEY. MAMA’s SO SORRY!” He did not give one shit. It was not possible for him to have put his ears back any more fiercely.

As you can see, above, he forgave me enough to lurk on the fridge for breakfast. So. We’re working past it, with time and counseling.

How many photos of cats in that window ARE there, do you think?

6a00e54f9367fb883401bb09003daf970d-500widownload

6a00e54f9367fb883401156f19bf09970c-600wi.jpg
Oh my god, Francis was SUCH a dick.

6a00e54f9367fb883401b8d1e67be6970c-500wi

Anyway, I know I had other things to tell you, but I am Africa today, so I’m all over the place.  I have GOT to get my freelance work done this weekend, and I have a hundred pages to go, followed by spellchecking it and looking for consistencies throughout, which means I only have about 86 hours to go.

And no, I’m NOT being paid by the hour. I got a flat fee. This whole book was so stressful that instead of using the money I earn for something practical, I’m getting a kilo of weed, a willing lawn boy and Boston Market delivered to my door.

Can you even buy weed by the “kilo”? I should probably get into drugs briefly so these references remotely ring true.

IMG_1873.jpgI leave you with the following Gladys Kravitz news: My youngster neighbor is moving. Or else he’s a lesbian on his third date.

Not that I’m glued to my window like a shut-in or anything, but I noted his girlfriend left awhile back, and maybe he’s going wherever she went.

That’s the house where the lady would come home from third-shift nursing in the morning, with a paper bag of fast food, and I wanted to run over and tell her, “You’re moving more and more slowly, and it’s this fast food that’s killing you,” because as we all know, my food pyramid is banging.

Turns out, she was dying. She got diagnosed on Halloween, was dead by New Year’s day. She no longer felt hale and Hardee’s.

This is why I have bad luck.

So then this whippersnapper moved in a few years back, and I guess he’ll be selling the house, or god forbid renting it to his delinquent friends. But whatever happens, I hope that nice couch stays on the curb just forever. Total Joey and Chandler couch.

Okay, talk at you. I’ll try to write this weekend, as I will be isolating to get my work done and if I don’t somehow contact the outside world, I will get weird. Which you can see I’m far from.

Normally,

June

LDV

I have a new thing that bugs me: Women using that video-making feature where their eyes are huge, and their lips are gigantic, and their voices are distorted. Perhaps you’re hilarious, person making a video while sitting in a car, which, woooo! How could you NOT be, with that original venue? But I see that damn exaggerated-features look, and I can’t even click to hear one word.

Also, the kids who’ve been coached to sound world-weary when they’re four. Stop.

You all have put both of these on the Facebook of June page lately to say, “I hate these,” and I am so with you.

These videos are the 2000s version of Pagemaker. Back in the ’90s, this program got invented that let you create your own invitations and flyers and so forth, called Pagemaker (and not PageMaker. I believe it came before we started the equally annoying trend of naming everything WordThing. WordPress. TypePad. InDesign. StopIt).

Anyway, Pagemaker started the whole Secretary As Artist trend, where everyone was “designing” their own stuff, and it looked horrific. Now we have video cameras in our purses, and little special effects we can use, and suddenly everyone’s a makeshift internet comedian.

Says the woman who still blogs, for god’s sake.

You know what was funny? The woman who’d bought herself the Chewbacca mask. She wasn’t trying to get millions of viewers. She wasn’t trying to hone her “craft.” She wasn’t trying to become an Instagram star so she could quit her day job. She was just a genuinely likable person who happened to capture a funny moment.

And this is the problem, I think. The little girl dancing Gangnam style at a wedding reception is genuine. These “I planned them” videos always look, you know, planned. And they aren’t that funny.

I know I’m not the only curmudgeon, here.

Look who I’m talking to. Of course I’m not.

Other than me hating everything on the planet and still being in an angry phase, that about sums it up. I worked on something all day yesterday at work, which was fun to do, actually, but took a lot out of me. Copy editing. It isn’t laying bricks, but you’d never know that.

Anyway, I came home, realized I was out of soap and water. I am not kidding. Soap and water. So then Edsel and I went to the grocery store. I hated to leave him after I’d just gotten home and he’d started sculpting a bust in my honor and so forth.

Then I got home and said, “Is it an acceptable time to go to bed yet?” like anyone was watching. I made myself stay up till 9:00, didn’t do any freelance and hello panic, and then Eds and I slept all night except for Edsel’s one very urgent call of nature at 12:12 a.m. I swear we were back asleep by 12:14.

The only exciting news I have for you is that several months ago, maybe even a year ago, Faithful Reader Fay sent me a Hello Kitty toaster, which I use quite frequently. I’m quite the connoisseur of toast.

But all this time, I’ve been buying the pretentious bread, a habit I picked up from my…ex, the 404 Error, who gets said bread in the deli section at the store, and it’s full of the nuts and grains and it is delicious.

But this weekend, I was near the Ghetto Lion, and I needed groceries (including water and soap, but who can remember?) (here is where my mother is screeching MAKE A LIST), and they don’t HAVE rough made-in-store bread at the Ghetto Lion, so I got normal-person bread in the bread aisle, and weird, it felt.

The point is, I made toast, and

GUESS

WHAT.

That toaster embeds a little image of Hello Kitty in the toast! My toast was too rough and unrefined and high-school educated to show it before.

IMG_1855.jpgMy life has been transfigured. Also, say “toast” one more time.

I’d better go. I’m taking Eds to the vet today, to figure out why he’s still itching and chewing, and now his stomach seems to be bothering him.

Before you give me all the advice, here’s what we’ve already tried:

  1. Changing his diet. Many times.
  2. Shots
  3. Steroids
  4. Antidepressant
  5. Another kind of antidepressant
  6. Flax seed oil
  7. Allergy medicine
  8. A different kind of allergy medicine

Someone told me to try colloidal silver, and Ima ask the vet about that today.

I can’t help having PTSD about Tallulah, and all the tests we ran, when her tumor was right there visible, had anyone, oh, looked at her little dog vagina. I have never once called it anything other than her “little dog vagina.” I don’t know why. Her LDV.

Have PTSD about a lot of things lately. Remember when life just used to be normal and I wasn’t upset? Me either. But I know it existed.

Okay, talk at you and your little dog vagina soon.