June talks to you while she gets ready for her hot Friday night.

Photo on 2-16-18 at 6.11 PM #2.jpg
6:09 p.m. and I just showered.

I had two plans tonight: coworkers were getting drinks at 5:00, and then other friends invited me over at 8:00-ish. Don’t you hate people who add “ish” to a time? What are we, gay men in the ’60s? That outfit is fab, lover.

Anyway, I eschewed my right-after-work plans because I didn’t work today. I took the day off to go to the doctor in Durham about m’nose. I’ve waited TWO MONTHS to get this appointment to see if I can actually get it fixed, and how much would it be, and so on.

And? Migraine. Woke up with it in the middle of the night. ‘Twas a bad one. Had to cancel my damn appointment.

So, I spent the day instead sleeping till 10:30 and then trying to clean the smell of cat bodily fluids out of my bedroom. Fmr. Because cats.

IMG_5393.jpgI 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.

IMG_5391.jpgSo 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.

Last time I arranged my books, my neighbor Peg was here to help me, and we drank wine and she ordered me around and it was a typical evening with Peg.

Now she’s in hospice. HAPPY FRIDAY!

IMG_5402.jpgAnyway, 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 that’s done, and my afternoon of scrubbing the bedroom floor with vinegar, and then drying it by mincing around the room with a beach towel under me, and opening both windows, and turning on a fan, and Sharking it, all that resulted in guess what.

It still smells cat.

IMG_5401 2.jpgSo 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

Photo on 2-16-18 at 6.28 PMwith my GODDAMN UNFIXED NOSE and then Ima put on some makeup and before my plans Ima head to PetSmart

and them Ima come back with some enzyme fluid and see if that works. If it doesn’t, I’m going with Faithful Reader Tee’s suggestion of uninitiated alcohol or whatever she calls it. Indentured servant alcohol. What the hell does she call it?

Also, I need lamps. I have no money for lamps this pay period, but lamps I need. I need one for next to the bed in the guest room, and now one for next to the bed in my room BECAUSE IT GOT POOPED ON, and a stand-up one in the living room for comedy, and maybe one back here because the one back here has no knob–it fell off–and now it flickers and I can’t do anything about that. Because no knob.

I have the hardest time finding lamps and clocks. Every clock I’ve bought for this house has ceased working eventually, and the Lenox clock they gave me at work? The fancy crystal one for 5 years of service?

Stopped working.

I think it’s my nose. It can stop a clock.

Seriously, was looking forward to this nose appointment for TWO MONTHS.

Photo on 2-16-18 at 6.33 PM.jpgIs this dry enough? It isn’t, is it. Goddammit.

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Insert Jeopardy theme

So, other than my plans tonight, half of which I skipped out on, my only other big exciting thing Ima do is get my chakras read tomorrow. Of course I will report back to you. What are you, new?

The first asshole to point out how many lamps I can buy with a chakra reading gets cloudy chakras.

Photo on 2-16-18 at 7.07 PM #2.jpg…Okay, dry enough, man. PetSmart won’t shop itself. That made no sense. As opposed to the sensical smelling of my German roots.

Your number one. And two,
Nosily,
Joon

Hot buff puppy men

Yesterday at lunch, I came home, got my kittens, and took them back to the shelter.

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Vicki, on her way back, clearly gracing us with her WTF face

They were supposed to weigh two pounds apiece in order to be adoptable, and Lexi, the cute light-gray one, did. The rest weighed a little above 1.5. But you guys.

They were pooping just everywhere.

I tried different litters and different boxes, and I piled books, oh so many books, around the bed, so they wouldn’t be able to go under there, as they had been. Clearly what I saw as a bottom of a bed, they saw as Men and Women restroom signs.

So the shelter was willing to take them back, as they have people already interested in them and they’re healthy, and I hope those people can get those kittens litter-trained, because I was in poop hell, is what I was.

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Trixie, doing her Nancy Kerrigan impresh. WHYYYYY.

Despite an entire three weeks of shiitake mushrooms up in here, of coming in number two, depsite being Mr. Spock seeing the Captain’s Log, I was so sad to drive them back. I knew they were getting big enough for new homes, and I felt prepared. But when that volunteer lady carried them back to the vet room, my heart broke.

Can I just put up my favorite pictures of each one? Will you indulge me? Did I mention to you my camera was not automatically deleting photos for some cockamamie reason, so I had to call AppleCare, and what I figured out in that fiasco was that I have taken 1,400 photos this month?

I had the kittens for three weeks. What do YOU think that ratio was?

…I just spent forever looking, and I CAN’T DECIDE which are my favorites. Here are some highlights…

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[sobs quietly into giant pillow]

But, there are new kittens where THEY came from, and yesterday I had Alf, my ridiculous handyman, rehang my door to the old computer room, the one with the bad concrete floor. When I moved out of or back in here, we’d taken the door off to move something or other, and after that the door never shut right. Alf put it back on right, for free.

He’s not that altruistic. He also built me a small fence that I DID pay for.*

The point is, Ima rearrange things, because my oh my, I sure know how to arrange things, and when new kittens come, THAT will be the kitten room, with a washable quilt on the floor (Idea: Cat Rescuer Robyn®), so that if I get another crop o’poopers I can clean it more easily than the dang wood floors.

*IMG_5370.jpgDo you enjoy my clever footnote in the middle of this post, which really takes the foot away from my note? Anyway, when you’re looking at the front of my house, stalker, there’s a cute picket fence on one side…

IMG_5371.jpgAnd I realize these photos are taken from inside my exclusive enclave, but I had on my robe and didn’t wish to go out and give the neighbors even more of a show than they already get at this Cat on a Cold Tile Roof What’s Her Hair Doing Today house. My One-Gray-Gargoyle house. My Her-Blind-Cat’s-Done-Murdered-Our-Chicadees-Again house.

Anyway, on one side is this cute white picket fence, like I’m Theodore Cleaver, and on the other, although you can’t really see it past the foliage, but still, on the other side was this bendy, falling-down, horrific wire fence that if Edsel had half a mind, he’d have escaped from years ago.

The thing about Edsel is, one time the damn lawn men left that gate open, and I didn’t know, and Edsel went in the yard and stayed there the whole time, with the gate wide open to the world. He coulda left me and trotted off to those bathhouses he so often looks up online.

So. He’s a good boy. Also, the last thing he’d find sexy is a bathhouse. Edsel does not enjoy getting clean.

IMG_5370The point is this photo, that I done already showed you but I rambled so here it is again, was put up by the Alf yesterday, and he said I have to wait till

FUCKING AUGUST

to paint it white. Also, I see he’s left some wood behind, hoooo haaaaaa, and now I hafta crankily text him about that.

Anyway, so lunch yesterday was not relaxing, as I had to scream home, get my kittens in a box, talk to Alf, scream to the shelter, then scream to work. On my way back to work I passed a Panda Express, which was A BAD IDEA, JUNE. I got me some teriyaki MSG, with a side of MSG, and got a screeching, screaming migraine and spent my Valentine’s Day evening with an ice pack and my nausea medicine.

Despite this, I had to come home from work and clean up ALL THE CAT POOP that was under the bed, despite the world-of-books fortress I’d built, so that was relaxing. I had to throw out the dog bed that was in there, as well, as they’d peed on not only that, but the cushion under it, as I’d already been washing the cushion fabric and when they saw the innards they said oh good, a new place to pee. So.

Kitten rescue. It’s relaxing.

So now I gotta get a new dog bed, not that Eds doesn’t have two others, but I like for him to have dog beds in each bedroom, because…well, I guess I don’t have a reason. Because I’ll occasionally switch rooms for whatever reason and he can flump onto a dog bed no matter which room, I guess. Dream of hot buff puppy men.

I must go, and get ready for work, even though my head is cloudy and that migraine is not fully gone. Stupid Panda Express. What was I THINKING?

Kittenlessly,
Juan

To Kill a Talking Bird

Dear Women Who Prattle at Movies:

What the hell is wrong with you?

Last night, my old movie theater showed To Kill a Mockingbird, and I got there fairly early in order to get my popcorn (dinner) and get a decent parking spot. Not necessarily in that order, and what I like about myself is my strong writing ability.

My spot in the balcony was secured. I have always sat in the same spot in the balcony there, and when Ned and I broke up, we made a deal that I’d get the balcony and he’d find another spot. Once, after FatGate 2016, I even sat on the main floor during It’s a Wonderful Life, just so I wouldn’t spot him accidentally.

But last night I went to my regular spot, and guess who showed up. I wasn’t even surprised. I knew he’d want to see that movie.

Anyway, that wasn’t the annoying part. The annoying part was these four women directly in front of us. Now, I know that when you women get together, you hen parties, you all like to talk. Excitedly. This is why I don’t generally hang around women. That and the fact that women always expect you to show up with a candle.

Women: Hey, let’s have lunch.

Me (reluctantly): Okay. (The other reason I’m not friends with many women is lunch. Why are they so into it?)

A week later…

Women: Hey! I’m here at lunch with just a little something I found for you. It’s a candle! With a cat on it! LOL!

Why? Why do we have to exchange gifts just because we’re getting together? It never dawns on me to get a gift for anyone unless they’re, you know, having a birthday party or dead.

Okay, it never dawns on me to get gifts for the dead, either.

Married. If they’re having a birthday party or if they’re registered somewhere because they’re getting married. Then it occurs to me to get a gift.

And I know it means they were thinking of me and they love me and wish to hug, and I should be flattered, but are they? Is that true? Or do they think, Oh fuck. Lunch is Tuesday. June’s so looking forward to lunch. I gotta get her ass a candle.

I mean, is it a pain in the ass obligation for these women, or do they truly go shopping and think of other people, which by the way is also something I never do. Ned once told me I’m the only girlfriend he ever had who has bought him zero clothing, and I’m the person he dated the longest time.

Why the hell should I buy him clothing? Am I his mom? Is he 7? Maybe I’m just a terrible person. Also, I’d like to say to the four women in real life that I’m friends with, I don’t mind lunch with you. Well, I do mind lunch. But not you.

But speaking of my terrible towel personality, last night, there was Ned with his beer and his popcorn, and he’s getting all settled in my spot–our spot, fmr.–and this gaggle of women, middle-aged women, is in front of us, and yes I know I’m a middle-aged woman.

What I like about myself are my short, concise sentences, and what a strong writer I am and oh, thanks for the candle.

Anyway, as soon as I sat behind these women, I noticed one of them was chattering. I mean, endlessly. And looking at her tiny cracked iPhone 3 or whatever embarrassing phone she had. She kept checking Facebook at the movie, and chattering to her friends, and I’m telling you she was physically unable to stop talking.

At this point, the organist was still playing (some 40s song that escapes me now, but which I know all the words to, so I was singing along and Ned was quietly howling like a dog, which by the way is exactly the same thing damn Marvin used to do when I sang. I HAVE A LOVELY VOICE) and the announcer person was still announcing (that always goes on too long), so I had some hopes this woman would

SHUT

THE

FUCK

UP

once the movie began.

But no. Oh, no. I wanted to shove her into a ham costume and knock her over in the woods.

Seriously, are people just unaware that you shouldn’t talk in the movies? There was an old couple in their row, who kept trying to sort of unobtrusively stare at her, so she’d get the hint, because it’s the South and other than Dick Whitman, who once turned around and told an old lady to be quiet and I just about died of shock, no one ever directly says anything here. Unless it’s racist. Bah.

Anyway, good movie, but once the lights went up, I saw Ned smirking at me.

“I hate those women,” I groused.

“I knew you did. I knew the whole time,” he said.

Meanwhile, Nancy is still not pooping in her box. He has three–three!!–different styles of boxes and litters now, and he’s taking her to the vet on Thursday.

For me, that’s the dealbreaker. A cat doesn’t use its litter box, it’s over for me. It makes me appreciate the asshole cats I have. And when I say “asshole,” I of course just mean Steely Dan.

Since the kittens got here, I’ve been sleeping in the spare bedroom, and I don’t know why I’m not shutting the door in there the way I did in the real bedroom, but the result is, just everyone’s sleeping with me. I got Edsel, with whom I always sleep, but now Iris and Lily, who are easy to sleep with.

And then it would appear that Steely Dan doesn’t so much sleep with me as he perches atop the headboard and stares down at me, like when Snoopy acts like a vulture.

SnoopyVulture

I say this because at any point that I wake up, he is leering down at me with his shiny eyes of death. That is why I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s all he does. That he never actually curls up against me and purrs or anything. Like a cat that isn’t evil would.

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fuk owf

I gotta go, but I keep forgetting to mention goat yoga to you, which I attended on Sunday.

IMG_5202.jpgIt was at a very muddy farm, as it has rained here for like 412 days.

IMG_5203.jpgThis 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.

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Me and Billy McGoat. You’re welcome.

But goatses!

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I LOVE YOU, GOATS!!
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whyyyyyy we gotta do yoga-a-a-a with the wites?
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There were even barn kitties there, because I don’t get enough pussy at home.

So that was fun, and totally worth it, and now I wish for a goat.

I gotta go, which I think I said 20 minutes ago. Ima check in on m’kittens, and get to work.

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fuk awf

Wow, they’re getting so bi–HEY.

Asshole.

Your funny Valentine. If “funny” is a relative term,
June

How to Have a Migraine: A Step-By-Step Guide

Yesterday morning, after I’d gotten up early and stressed own self over adding polls to this here not-blog (good participation, by the way!), I got an email.

“Can you knock this out this morning?”

I wasn’t even at work yet, and already I was anxious. It’s this big, several-tabbed Excel document that I copy edit every month, and of course copy editing is what I do, but this is several rows long, like sometimes 20 rows, and if you know from Excel, it extends all the way to the letter M.

Some squares I have to copy edit. Some I don’t. Some I have to count characters. Some I don’t. And it’s so big that I can’t see it all at once and actually proofread the words in it at the same time, so I have to blow it up and then clunk around on the thing, wondering, “Did I already read that? Did I count characters for this one?”

And always they need it in like two hours.

I keep saying, “Ideally, I’d like five hours to do this thing” but there never are five hours to be spared.

So that makes me tense every month, and there it was, the dreaded spreadsheet. And did I mention I wasn’t even at work yet?

As I was in the middle of that, someone ran up to me. “Can you look at this real fast?” It was a magazine cover. You screw that up, and you cost the company hundreds of thousands of dollars to reprint.

So I stopped the scary thing to look at another scary thing, and as I was doing that, my boss’s boss, fmr., came over. “Come back in 20,” I groused, and just as I was getting that cranky sentence out, the phone rang.

“CAN I CALL YOU BACK.”

Then I finished my scary magazine cover, and my horrifyingly clunky spreadsheet, and addressed the request of my boss’s boss, fmr., and called back the poor person who’d phoned me (I explained to her all that was going on at my desk when she’d called. “You were surprisingly polite, with all that going on,” she said) and boom.

I got an email from a woman I used to work with. “I was hoping we could get a glass of wine or some coffee or something,” she said, and seeing as no one likes me (see above) I agreed immediately. “We can meet somewhere, but also I have four foster kittens at my house, if that’s a thing you’d enjoy.”

I mean, you come to my house right now, you’re gonna be covered in kittens. For some, that is paradise. We’re knocking on heaven’s door. And for others, it sucks. I don’t understand those “others,” either.

Anyway, she agreed that my pad was the place to be.

Meanwhile, I got an immediate-turnaround, emergency article, and it was all financial info that I didn’t understand, and unfortunately for me, there seemed to be a par-tayyy going on at another desk, with everyone talking and laughing, and I was totally Cinderella with her headphones on, tryina concentrate and sweep the hearth.

At 1:00, I finally got done, and headed home for lunch. I’d had one piece of toast all day, and I was feeling decidedly peckish.

But you know how your house seems okay until you know someone is coming over? “Aw, man, I should change the throw rug in the bathroom. Man, I should sweep this floor.”

Next thing you know, almost an hour had passed, and I STILL HAD MY COAT ON, and was taking out the recycling and scrubbing the stove top and oh my god.

I was already late for returning to work when I realized I couldn’t find two of the kittens.

IMG_4771.jpgI was missing goddamn Lexi.

img_4681.jpgAnd motherfucking Vicki, the tortoiseshell. Hey, June, why don’t you recover that chair.

Anyway, having had cats m’whole life, I wasn’t too worried. I looked under chairs, under desks, behind squeezy things.

No cats.

Matt the tabby and Trixie the black one were in their room, being good cats.

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me supeer yer
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mee 2

MY COAT STILL ON, I started shining a flashlight under things, and by the way, did you ever have your lights off and shine a flashlight on your hardwoods?

MOTHER OF GOD with the fur everywhere. I mean, maybe it’s because lately I’ve had nine fricking animals here, but good lord.

I wrote my boss. Current. “Minor emergency, working from home.” And then, even though I’d gotten everything done that was due, I did work. I figured maybe if I sat still, they’d come out.

Then I started having dreadful thoughts. What if I’d washed them with Edsel’s bed? What if I’d taken them out with the trash? I actually went out and searched the trash.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted and worried. “Ima get a migraine,” I thought, because I also hadn’t eaten, and I know the kind of day I had was like a poster: How To Get a Migraine.

Right at 5:00, I heard a mew. I’d been sitting on the couch, proofreading things, and when I get to work today, Ima be bored stiff, I got so far ahead of self. Really, you get a lot more work done at home.

Anyway, “mew!”

Where was it? Where was I hearing it? Was it outside? Oh, no, was it?

“mew!”

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Those mother

FUCKERS

were under the sink. And then of course I had to worry they ate poison, but if they did they seem to be thriving on it, so.

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My chins and me carrying Lexi back to her room. Fucking adventure cat.

IMG_4985.jpgLater, my pal from work came by, and enjoyed her some kittens and an indifferent Iris. Or was appalled by them. Also, I did not ask her if I could put her in said not-blog, so I hope she does not kick my ass.

IMG_4982.jpgIt’s possible she was more appalled than happy.

Right as she was leaving, I felt the first twinge. It ended up being a two-pill migraine, and I went to bed about 9:00. Felt dreadful.

As I was drifting to sleep spooning Steely Dan (don’t tell anyone), I heard a

“meep!”

IMG_4983 2.jpgFucking adventure tortie, seen here with her good pal and biggest fan, Edsel, had escaped the room, despite the 47 pillows I’ve crammed in the space. Like a day in the sink wasn’t fun enough. Now she has to creep about in the night.

So that was my day, and am sincerely hoping today is more copasetic, especially given that I have a migraine hangover.

Searchingly,

June

June polls you. And she didn’t even buy you a drink first

Do you remember the other day–like, two days ago–when I showed you that big tower of canned kitten food I bought?

There are two cans of it left. Yeesch.

Four kittens: Turns out, they eat.

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so wutss?

But that, my rapt audience (“Talk about fekking kittens more, June”), is not why I’ve gathered you all here today, into uncomfortable folding chairs, with your paper plates on your laps. No.

I’ve gathered you here because as you may recall, from your worn, sacred Book of June Events, my boss, fmr., gets Stitch Fix. [Everyone begins flipping pages back.]

We’d decided–and by “we” I mean me and my brain–to force her into trying on her Stitch Fix in front of me and my camera of death, and then we–and by “we” I mean you, me and my brain–get to vote on what she keeps.

In case you don’t know from Stitch Fix, it’s a service you can sign up for where every month (or less, if you choose) they send you clothes and you return whatever you don’t like in their giant addressed, stamped pouch that is a pain in the ass to mail because you have to cram it into a narrow-mouthed public mailbox somewhere and try not to jam up the whole damn thing so all the office workers in that particular complex whose parking-lot mailbox you’re using won’t detest you.

Yesterday, the golden day was upon us, wherein my boss, fmr., got her Stitch Fix. She pointed it out to me excitedly.

“Oh, god, Ima have to remember how to do polls in my blog,” I kvetched, as she tried on her first piece. And that is why I’m sitting here now, kittens climbing my socks (“Talk more about fekking kittens, June, REALLY”)

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eben WE ober you, fozter mom

AND THAT IS WHY I’M SITTING HERE NOW, the sun not up yet, having gotten up early just so I can struggle with doing polls in the body of my damn blog. So please vote. As I worked hard today. She works hard for the…oh, hell, I don’t even make money doing this.

Okay, here is the first piece… The first item. Her threads. Her duds.

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Wrap dress with hydrangeas and shit on it

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Okay, ALLEGEDLY I added a poll button. If it didn’t work, rather than drive me BERSERK while I’m at work with “THE POLLS DON’T WORK!” emails, just say what clothes you like in the comments. But according to my preview button, it worked.

Am sweaty.

Okay, on to the next one!

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Black blouse and green shirt. I should really write a fashion blog. I describe clothes like I’m a dude.


Oh my god. Polls! Embedded! I think! Am internet guru. Maybe.

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Black shell sleeveless top thing

Okay, the necklace was my favorite part…

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Ten thousand spoons when all you need is for June to leave you alone

“You can have cocaine parties!” I enthused.

So those are our clothing choices for my boss, fmr., this month, and please vote early and often. Actually I think I have it set up so you can vote only once, but what do I know.

Meanwhile, kittens.

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This one found Steely Dan’s stash of mouses, and walked around growling at everyone else, lest they take her treasures.

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#&$@, how you find?

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Son of BITZ
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now yuu play wif fire

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Meanwhile, Ned did not get Nancy yesterday, after all. He’s the boy who cried Nancy. Her little kitty operation was harder than they thought it would be, so they just wanted to monitor her for another day or so. So now MAYBE it’s today that he gets her and MAYBE it’s tomorrow.

“I’m supposed to go to dinner with my mom and uncle tomorrow. What if I get Nancy tomorrow?” he fretted.

See. This is the kind of dilemma that flummoxes Ned. He never cancels things. It’s, like, an impossibility to him. “They’ll understand, Ned,” I said. He still wasn’t sure.

As someone once said to my Uncle Jim, peoples is funny. I know I’ve told you this before, but Ned is a pit bull about plans. Once he makes them, they cannot be unmmade. Once, in maybe the first year I was dating him, we had plans to go see Pulp Fiction at the old theater. But Edsel had to have surgery that day, and the night of the event, there was no way I was leaving my dog.

Ned went to the movie anyway. I was so mad. I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t want to seem difficult.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh. That’s rich. But I was tryina keep that part under wraps. But in reality, I was all, Jesus, how insensitive is this guy? Why can’t he just come over and hang out with the dog and me? He’s gotta stampede to some old movie we could just rent here?

But see, now I know how he is with plans. The plan was made. He had to go through with it, whether I was going with him or not. Because he made that plan.

He also is forever the last to leave anything, a trait I’ve heard him complain about in others and on my insides I’m all, OH MY GOD YOU WERE THE EXACT SAME WAY ALWAYS. All the credits have rolled. Everyone’s left the party except the hostess and her mom who is staying for the week. The waiters have clocked out. THERE’S NOTHING LEFT. YOU AREN’T GOING TO MISS OUT ON ANYTHING BECAUSE THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO MISS.

Don’t you hate people who say “exact same”?

Anyway. We’ve covered a lot today. We traversed the world, with our polls and our spoons and our rehab and our kittens.

Oh, and one more thing (JESUS JUNE WE GOTTA GO). Edsel has never liked it when cats fight. Whenever Steely Dan rolls his shoulders and hunches, staring down one of my innocent flower cats, Edsel leaps over to break the whole thing up.

IMG_4907.jpgYou can imagine his angina with four seven-week-old kittens and their play fights. Good lord. He’s Sister Mary Agnes, breaking up all the fun.

That picture where Lily is glaring at you, me, the Guilford County Animal Shelter for drumming up this plan, kittens in general and anyone who isn’t her, in that photo, Edsel is back there breaking up frolic. What a Dog Downer that dog is.

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eyeriss side wif lillee on dis one

Just like a movie star, who gets burned in a three-way script

I’ve been obsessed with a game.

I’m not a game person. I kind of hate games, actually, and for this, I blame my childhood. My mother used to have this game night, see, with her friends.

My whole life, as far back as I can recall–and I can recall being in my crib*, so it goes a ways–my mother has had friends. Not like one friend who we all call “Aunt” or whatever, no. Like, seven thousand friends.

(*I can remember my Uncle Jim leaning over my crib with this scary mask on his face, part of my parents’ official collection of World’s Most Disturbing Art®.)

Her friendships–my mother’s, not the scary African mask’s–are always a result of Whatever She’s Into Right Now, whether it’s her church or her hobbies or her political meetings, like the kind Frank Kennedy and Rhett and Doc Meade and foppy Ashley went to.

(Now, see, that’s funny if you know from Gone With the Wind, because that political meeting was a KKK meeting, and right now my mother is pursing her lips disapprovingly.)

Anyway, Whatever She’s Into Right Now means there are eight thousand new friends of hers calling and popping in and wanting to hug me. If I’m visiting nowadays, and the phone rings–which it does 7,000 times a day there–and I answer, the friends always start off with, “Pam?” because we sound exactly alike. And then I’m the bitch who has to start off every conversation with, “No. This is June.” It always feels so unfriendly to be all, “No.”

They’re always outgoing, these friends of my mother’s. And while people think I’m gregarious and an extrovert just because I’m funny, mostly my days are spent trying to have as much time to brood alone on the couch as possible. It’s always been my goal: If I’ve had a day where I got to spend a good five hours alone brooding on the couch, I give that day one of those stupid 100 emojis.

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What the fuck with those?

Anyway, at some point in my childhood, maybe when I was 7 or 8, my mother started having game night, usually on a Friday, where she’d make popcorn and get out the Gallo Hearty Burgundy, and her outgoing friends would all come over, as would my outgoing Uncle Leo, dragging my Aunt Kathy, who likes to be in bed by 7:30.

Then all night, they’d lounge across my brooding couch and laugh and shout over each other and eat popcorn while they enjoyed them some rousing games of Jeopardy or 10,000 Pyramid. Or Password.

Often, my Aunt Kathy would fall asleep in a spare bed, like a toddler.

I remember being roped into these games occasionally, and sometimes I’d have to be moderator for Jeopardy. I was Alex Trebec and call.

Later, in my teen years, I remember coming home to some of the game nights, and having to pretend I wasn’t drunk as a skunk after a kegger. I’ve no idea if I pulled it off. Also, why did we all stop having keggers?

(Several of my mother’s outgoing friends are my Facebook friends, and I plan to tag them on this particular post, and I ask them: Did I pull it off? Did you have no idea I’d done 16 Miller Lite beer bongs?)

Anyway. Since I associate games with fun and frolic and friends, naturally it doesn’t appeal to me. Millennials seem to be big into games, and back when people at at work liked me, I was constantly being asked to game nights with them, and I’d always say no so I can brood on the couch.

But that’s just what I was doing the other day when I got some sort of targeted ad on my phone. You know how you’re on social media, and you swear you just THOUGHT, only THOUGHT, about how you wish they had high heels for swans, and then you’re scrolling and there’s an ad for Swan Slingbacks or whatever?

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Jesus Christ, really? I just Googled high heels for swans and this came up.

Anyway, I’ve no idea, really, why they targeted me for a game, but maybe they’ve been watching me since childhood, when I was moderating Jeopardy. But anyway, they lured me in by saying, “Play this game to increase your brain power here” and I did, and then I was hooked and I think I paid four dollars for this app, called Peak, that allegedly makes your brain work better, and as you can see from this not-at-all-disjointed post that it’s working like a charm. And also by the fact that I parted with four dollars.

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The game that really got me is called Word Fresh, and they give you some set amount of minutes to make as many words as you can, from a sheet of letters.

This game is perfect for me. I like words, and I like the Mission Impossible pressed-for-time challenge, and plus, I don’t have to talk to or smile at anybody. It can be played at home, by myself, on my couch of sorrows! With zero hugs!

At this point, even my kittens are sick of it.

I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve ever been involved in a game, and the first person who tries to make it social gets glared at by me. The first person who says, Oooo, June, they have a Word Fresh night at Moose Parts Brew Pub or Oooo, June, we all play it together on this one website with a chat room, the first person who does that is the victim of my next political meeting.

Anyway, I know you’ll be irritated with me if I just talk about that and don’t show you any kittens. I’m going over to Ned’s tonight to see Nancy, and I just can’t wait. I wonder if she’d like to play Word Fresh with me?

Here are the kittens. Edsel and Matt are peas and carrots, man.

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Queen Kong

When I first get up, I feel vaguely like a cafeteria server at the prison, or like Laura Ingalls Wilder when she had to feed the threshers the first day she was married.

“Gee, June, I don’t remember that from the show.”

And that was the day June tore down the street in her chonies and cut out her own tonsils.

Anyway, feeding the threshers. Not that even one of these mofos has helped me thresh even once.

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o shut upz feeed steeleee
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to be blawg dawg not always good tyme.
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to stop effing round, mom. you not see lillee starve.
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nomnomnomnom

I really have to vacuum that floor. I tried just sweeping it, but I see some leftover Feline Pine. This means Ima have to pull out the vacuum and terrify four kittens. Rewarding!

Anyway, when we left each other on Saturday, I had taken all the kittens and their mom to the shelter, for their shots and so on. When they brought back the cat carrier, I could tell right away that Nancy, the mom, was not in the carrier. “She’s ready to be adopted,” they told me. “Your friend, I think his name was Ned Nickerson? Emailed me to say he wants the mom.”

She knew more than I did. For while I had included Ned in a group email saying the kittens and mom were almost ready, he hadn’t written me to say, “Ima take the mom, for sure.” Or even fo sho. As Ned is forever talking that way. You know how street he is.

So then I came home and wrote to you, and said if anyone wants to fekking leave a tip for June, your old pal June, that would be great, because it turns out four kittens eat a lot and poop a lot, and yay, thank you for your tips thus far!

Kittens

$10.00

Then I couldn’t stand it, and I called Ned. “They took the mom cat from me. Are you really adopting her?”

He really is! When I called him, on Saturday morning, he was in Raleigh, and do I want to know why he was in Raleigh that early? I do not. I figure there was some kind of VaginaFest 2018 that he attended that I’d rather not consider.

The point is, while the shelter DICKED HIM AROUND–kept telling him one thing and then he’d get there and learn another (he’s been to the shelter like three times this week), and no one seems to know what anyone else is doing there–he is, in fact, getting Nancy today.

One of the things they did tell him Saturday was that he had to come get her right away, that they could not keep her on hold, so he screamed down there and they were all, “Well, she needs to be spade first.”

Jesus. But that gave Ned, who you may know is something of an unspontaneous person, a chance to go to the pet supply store, even though he already just had a cat for 18 years, and get new litter boxes and a new cat carrier and a little litter-trapping rug and I don’t even know what else, I just know he spent like $200. For a $25 cat from the shelter.

He said Nancy was already in the cats-for-adoption room when he got there the third and final time till he goes back today, just dead asleep, and he said she was probably exhausted from seven weeks of mom-ing. Her surgery is today, which ought to perk her up. Heh. He gets her at 5:00.

Meanwhile, I get to keep her children for two weeks. I don’t see the point, really. If they’re away from their mom, and they’re with me, why can’t they just be in another, permanent home?

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Not that I’m complaining.

IMG_4650.jpgLexi 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.

At work, one of our clients was, let’s say, a telecommunications company, and every three seconds they had something happening “on the go.” Get your bill on the go. Now you can watch The Big Game on the go. We do this service for you, because we know you’re always on the go.

Guess what I worked hard to recast? In copy editing, instead of just saying, “Re-fucking-write this,” we say, “recast.” Because we’re pretentious. And on the go.

Anyway, whenever evil Steely Dan is outside,

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Here he is, not outside. The side of SD he doesn’t want you to see. Click here!

I let the kittens out. He seems appalled by them, and while he was great with Jodie Foster, I don’t want to take a chance with his evil self.

IMG_4608.jpgBut the point is, Edsel is an excellent kitten-sitter.

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Edz try

Could I look more hagged out in that photo? Hey, I have a lot to take care of right now.

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See?

IMG_4598.jpgIMG_4623.jpgBut 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

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[except for Lexi]
and climb all over Edsel.

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Somebody peed on the bedspread in there, so I just took it off. That room is a mess. I was in there scrubbing the floor with vinegar this weekend, and as I already announced, I see I have to vacuum over by the boxes and food and so on. Good lort.

IMG_4603.jpgAnyway, he’s excellent with them. My mother said they’re like Fay Ray and he’s King Kong.

Queen Kong. Who’re we kidding?

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So that was my weekend, although I did go out with the four coworkers who still like me.

IMG_4431.jpgWe 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.

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See? Old.
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See? Old.

IMG_4427.jpgThe 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.

IMG_4426.jpgBut seriously. IRISH WOLFHOUND!!

I also ended up going to a Super Bowl shindig, and what commercials did you like? I thought the Bud Knight was funny. And I don’t want to see movie trailers during my Super Bowl commercials. Fuck off.

Anyway, when Ned gets Nancy I’ll officially alert you–and yes, he’s keeping the name Nancy. “Well, she already has a name,” he said, like she’s a dog or something. He’s very nervous. He’s only ever had the one cat, and he worries about adjusting to a new cat’s quirks. But Nancy is a delight. Unless she was being polite and once she feels more comfortable, she will be World’s Worst Cat. But you’ll be stunned to hear that I feel like I know from cats, and she’s a good one.

IMG_4673.jpgWhy would you know from cats, June? Why won’t you go ahead and recover that chair, June? That you already bought fabric for, June?

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edz habing happee day. o, so happee day.

Catly,

June

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The many pants of June

Oddly, I remember what I was doing a year ago today. I mean, as someone who writes what’s going on in her life every day–now without weekends!–I guess it’s not that shocking. But believe it or not, I don’t look at my blog every day and read what I wrote in past years. I also don’t check to see how many comments I got. I read those as emails.

Nevertheless, I remember that last January 31, I went to the allergy doctor, because my throat always feels like it’s closed up. He put all those–

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–what the hell? This just caught my attention out the corner of my eye. Why? What’s fun about jumping up there? You just have to hunch over like Quasimodo. Quasi-meow-do. You’re welcome. That sort of hilarity is why you come here.

As I was saying. The allergist put all those needles in my back, to see what I’m allergic to, if anything. The little chippie in the scrubs said, “Do you want your phone while you lie here with needles in your back and we wait for you to die of allergies?”

I mean, really. If someone can die from kissing someone who had eaten peanut butter earlier, why can’t you die from getting poked with something you might be really allergic to? But no. They leave you in there full of allergens, and go about their business.

“No,” I smugged. “I can be alone with my thoughts.” Ya goddamn millennial. In your fuchsia scrubs.

So she left, probably to go look at her phone, and then I found myself unable to be alone with my thoughts. What if I went into anaphylactic shock because they’ve injected me with pine nuts or whatever? What if nothing ever happens to me, and I die one of those New York deaths where no one knows till the smell drifts into the hallway?

That was from When Harry Met Sally.

I guess what I’m saying to you is, it was one year ago today that we found out I have dust mite allergies. And do you know what I haven’t been doing? Is taking my Allegra.

But what I HAVE been doing is taking stupid Prilosec every morning when I get up. The doctor told me to. I mean, he also told me to take Allegra, but let’s leave that alone now, you nagging bitch.

So, I take it, then I have to wait half an hour before–

IMG_4370.jpgWhat the hell? Why can’t he ever just sit still? And he thinks he wants out, but it’s cold as shit, and the other day he was out and it was cold, and when I opened the back door to call him, he immediately leaped through the hole in the screen door to get in, without waiting for me to take that lengthy stretch that it takes to, oh, open a screen door.

He hates cold. And yet he wants out in it.

He’s an adventure cat.

Anyway. So, I have GERD, along with my dust mite allergy, and really, the part where I go on with life is inspirational. The doctor wants me to take two Prilosec in the morning, then wait half an hour to drink coffee, and has he MET me?

It’s the most difficult half hour of my day, that wait for coffee. More difficult than any half hour of Tracy Anderson I may do.

But now a half hour has passed since I took my goddamn medication, and now I can have my coffee. Hang on. …Oh, sweet elixir that gives me migraines and GERD.

img_4371.jpgI bought this mug when I saw my Aunt Mary at Thanksgiving. It was in a little shop we popped into. News flash: If you’re with my Aunt Mary, you are going to pop into little shops.

Anyway, Owosso is a town in Michigan. When I was a kid, my father went to both Hawaii and the town of Owosso for work. So I used to tell everyone that when I got big, I was going to move to either Hawaii or Owosso. They both sounded so exotic. I had no idea why all the adults were so hog wild over this announcement.

I wonder what my four-year-old self would’ve thought about “Greensboro.”

I think I’ve lived here the longest, out of anyplace since I left Michigan. When I’m 54, I will have lived away from Michigan for as long as I ever lived there. (That’s in a year and a half.)

(Fuck.)

I lived in Seattle for four years and two months, to the day.

I lived in Los Angeles for 10 years and six months, to the day.

I’ve lived in North Carolina for–oh my god! It’ll be 10 years and six months on February 5.

Also, I am weird about knowing dates. It’s irked people my whole life. I met someone in college, with whom I slept, who was also weird about dates the way I was. Turns out, our compatibility started and ended there.

He was, well, he was Marvin’s roommate, okay? I didn’t know I was gonna marry Marvin. Geez. Anyway, once, they were lying around their room, Marvin and his roommate With Whom I Slept, and Marvin said, “I wonder if eventually we will sleep with the same girl” and also he said, “I wonder what day we lined our drawers.”

I mean. That sums Marvin up right there.

They’d lined their drawers with the school newspaper, for which I wrote, by the way, so this whole story is a circle of life. Boom. But anyway, Marvin’s roommate said, “September 29th.”

“How the fuck would you know that?” asked Marvin.

What I wonder is why the fuck two boys in their late teens weren’t out doing heroin and banging women. I guess because I hadn’t shown up yet. With m’horse. But I mean, really. Is this the saddest college conversation you’ve ever sat in on?

That same roommate of Marvin’s (WWIS) and Marvin were home for the weekend once, and they couldn’t find anything going on or anything to do. There they were, on a Saturday night, and Marvin’s grandparents drove up.

“We were looking for your parents. Aren’t they here?”

No. They weren’t. For it was Saturday night.

“We’re on our way out, too,” said Marvin’s 90-year-old grandparents, who literally squealed the tires on their way to their fun night.

And there stood Marvin and his friend (WWIS), still having zero to do on a Saturday. In Detroit. When they had their youth and their health, and more than likely a communicable disease from me.

What was I talking about? Have I become one of those old ladies who you wish would just go down for her nap already?

Oh, I know. The fact that they’d lined their drawers with newspaper meant Marvin’s roommate (WWIS) could open a drawer and prove he was right about the date.

Also, boys. Good lord. Lining their drawer with newspaper. I remember my roommate and I heading to Pier One to decorate our room, where we purchased among other things a large pink parasol to hang from one corner. Our drawer liner had lavender flowers. It may have even smelled nice. We may have been Spartans, but our room was not spartan.

My college roommate slept with everyone else. I took care of Marvin’s dorm room; she took care of all the other rooms. Together, we made a great team.

I gotta go. I realize this was an important and hard-hitting post, one you’ll remember for the rest of time, but it has to end sometime.

Before I leave you, obligatory kitten shots. Also, we’re getting to enjoy shots of The Many Pants of June, which is always a plus.

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My fur pants and I took the mom cat to the shelter yesterday, for her booster shot, and they said she is done producing milk. This does not stop this group of beasts from constantly suckling on what now must surely be her poor worn-out boobs for about 80 hours a day. So the shelter said they can stay here till they stop doing that.

DON’T STOP DOING THAT, LITTLE KITTENSES!!!!

Give June a doll box from 1972, and you’ve given her the world

I just heard myself tell the dog, “I just washed that floor,” as he skidded in with muddy paws, and now I have officially become my mother.

Then I realized that no, I actually did not wash this floor this weekend, making me officially my grandmother when the dementia set in.

I did wash a lot of floors, though, as folk were traipsing in and out of this abode all weekend to peer at little cats. And I’ve noticed a lot of willy-nilly use of the word “catten” around here, lately, so let’s review.

IMG_4243.jpgThis is a kitten.

IMG_4225.jpgSo is this.

IMG_4231.jpgNot a trick–also a kitten.

IMG_4274.jpgCAT. Now with catnip!

IMG_4220.jpgKittens with a cat.

IMG_4278.jpgKitten. By the way, if you don’t want litter every fucking where, don’t get that Feline Pine. I’ve already replaced it, after spending 394949394 hours sweeping, including sweeping the dog bed, an indignity I did not foresee.

Anyway, back to our review.

IMG_4258.jpgKittens.

IMG_4275CAT. He truly enjoyed his first foray into the ‘nip. You’ll be stunned to hear he’s kind of a mean drunk, with the swinging at me, a behavior that he does not usually indulge in, except with Ned. He always swung at Ned.

Anyway, none of what you just saw were cattens. CATTENS, which I believe is an official made-up term, are almost-grown kittens, like when you have, say, an eight-month old kitten. They’re almost there, in full-grown bitchy catness (see directly above) but not quite there. They’re still a bit gangly.

To sum, my house has a lotta fucking cats in it right now. And yes, I swept up that catnip along with the eleventy pounds of Feline Pine.

This is a video that Alex took, when she was here this weekend, and you will note the Feline Pine ON MY BOOTS. I was Feline-n-Boots.

IMG_4239.jpgAlso arriving this weekend were Chris and Lilly and their offspring, which the kittens were fine with and Edsel wasn’t. At one point, he leaped behind me to hide when a child had the nerve to look at him.

I haven’t had this many visitors in my room in one weekend since college.

I’ll be here all week.

Note I spent all that money on fabric propped up, there, and have never recovered my chair. What the hell is wrong with me?

I left the house only sporadically this weekend, because kittens. Dragged self to that Daniel Day Lewis movie, the one that’s nominated for Best Picture. What the hell’s it called? Anyway, it was good, and weird, which are my favorite kinds of films, but DDLewis annoys.

It just bugs me how everyone goes on about what a fabulous actor he is, and how for three months he just was Abraham Lincoln and so forth. Oh, shut up. Stop being fucking Abraham Lincoln. Just pretend. It’ll have the same effect. No one wants to deal with you going around being Abraham Lincoln, you self-important twit who plays house for a living.

Oh, your craft. Fuck you.

Anyway, so I went to the movies. Saw Daniel Day Lewis. He was a dress designer this time. Do you think he went around making dresses all day, like when we had Fashion Plates?

Screen Shot 2018-01-29 at 8.03.42 AM.pngThat’s some outfit she’s designing. “Yes, I envision a patchwork jumper, with a fine school-bus-orange scoop-neck T under it.”

3ed464f129504811f4c56ecbbdcf791f--childhood-toys-childhood-memories.jpgAlso, while I was up, Googling, “What the hell was that dress-designing toy I had when I was a kid?” I came across this motley crew. I think I had that box, and I’m not sure why, because my Free-to-be-You-and-Me-As-Long-As-You’re-a-Feminist mother was not all that keen on me having Barbie-esque things, which made them all the more tempting. But first of all, which one’s Dawn, and where did she get these jakey friends?

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We’ve got the Hungover, Walk-of-Shame friend.

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Cross-Eyed, Dude-That’s-a-Shirt-Not-a-Dress friend.

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Slept-With-Santa-Souvenir-Belt-n-Boots friend.

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Experimenting-With-Lesbianism friend, whose wellies I do admire.

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Cockeyed-Boobs friend, now with parentheses hair.

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Could this be Dawn? Because she looks like someone who’s rethinking her choices.

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“Jesus, what cockamamie sorority am I even in? Fucking Ken and his goddamn roofie.”

I like how the girls on the box have nothing to do with these yahoos out front. And who’s the fruitcake on guitar? Oh, I see. He’s eyeing up ol’ Snappy Dancer, on the right. Ascot flying. You know you got a live one when his ascot goes flying.

I’m sorry. I may need to reenact all the girls’ dance moves.

Photo on 1-29-18 at 8.17 AM #3.jpgphoto-on-1-29-18-at-8-17-am-4.jpgPhoto on 1-29-18 at 8.18 AM #2.jpgOh, by the way, I couldn’t find the pajama bottom that matched this top, nor the top that matched this bottom, so I said fuck it and wore this to bed. You’re welcome.

Also, the webcam reversed all the moves, which I guess I should have figured out, but spatial relations. So.

Well, it’s been a pleasure, and I’m glad I stuck to one subject and did not at all get distracted. That’s what matters. Also, I kept my dignity.

Your friend of Dawn,

June

Perhaps felines are mentioned briefly

Awhile back, I went to the animal shelter for fun, because I’m the only person in America who goes to the animal shelter for fun. Others play softball. At least that’s what I imagine the normal folk do.

They had a banner up: Fosters for Puppies and Kittens Needed.

It was like the best sentence of my life, along with Free Lipstick, No Purchase Necessary. Which isn’t really a sentence. Neither was “fosters for puppies and kittens needed.”

The best sort-of sentence of my life, along with “I’m Morris Chestnut and I need a woman to climb up on me.” Which actually was a sentence.

Also, hi, mom.

The point is, I volunteered. Not for puppies ALTHOUGH I WOULD. But it seemed like bringing back a puppy carcass, just sort of leaning it on their doorframe, isn’t what they had in mind at the animal shelter.

Last month, I fostered an orange and white kitten named Jodie Foster.

IMG_2954.jpgShe was MEANT to stay in the back bedroom, but that did not happen.

IMG_2938.jpgFortunately, she was a big hit with everyone here. And when she was ready to be adopted, she found a home that same day.

The point of fostering is you take home kittens who aren’t ready yet–they’re too young, they have an upper respiratory thing, that sort of snafu.

IMG_4169.jpgMy current crop, that I got yesterday, is too young. They’re jailbait. That is a disgusting term.

Anyway, I have a mom cat, Nancy,

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#%&&#*
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She gots ear tuftses
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#@@%&!!

and her four babies. The shelter already named them, so all my brilliant Nancy-related names were for naught.

IMG_4042.jpgThe black one is a girl, named Trixie. Because apparently she’s a waitress at a truck stop in the ’50s. Despite this dramatic photo, she is the most laid back one.

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trixeee really do be

IMG_4157.jpgIMG_4166.jpgLexi is gray with some butterscotch, and if anyone is going to wander off on her own, it’s she. She doesn’t need anyone. Well. For like 15 seconds at a time. Then she does.

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lexeee leeving soon

Below is Vicki, a tortoiseshell.

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wat that meen?

IMG_4021.jpgI got the kittens at lunch–screamed down to the shelter, got them all in a carrier, screamed home and set them up in their room, then screamed back to work, where while I was gone I had gotten two will-take-hours jobs that both needed to be done before 4:00. Relaxing. The point is, when I got home–and oh my god I could not wait to get home–Vicki, the little tortoiseshell, was having titty dinner with her mom. On this chair that is fur-free. Good lord.

That’s what my gramma called it. Titty dinner.

When I was a kid, I was friends with a girl named Vicki, and this is all so odd. Because when I was up there describing how I could not wait to get home, this memory flashed, of playing in the backyard at Vicki’s. Her dad owned a business in the back of their house–I think they still do. They had this little building in the way-back part of their yard.

They hired an assistant, this young girl who happened to live next door in a big pretty house they’d turned into apartments. I know she lived there with her boyfriend, and I don’t recall how I knew that. Did he work at that place in the backyard, too? And did they get the jobs first and happen to find a place next door, or did they live next door and happen upon these jobs? These Qs burn in my brain.

The point is, Vicki and I were playing in her yard when that woman got out of work, and she TORE across the backyard to her boyfriend. She didn’t even notice us; she was all aglow, looking over at their house, and you could tell she just couldn’t WAIT to get home. She ran right past us and The Sunshine Family.

That was what I thought of yesterday at work when I was toiling, knowing there were kittens at home. How I just wanted to stare at my house as I ran home. And then I looked up this kitten’s name on the papers I have, and it’s Vicki.

Clearly I am psychic. Or something.

img_4162.jpgimg_4059.jpgAnyway, this is Matt. He’s the only boy in this scenario. He seems pretty fearless, and after you’ve lived with all girls, you’d be fearless too. Actually, is that second picture Lexi? Oh my god, who knows. KITTENS.

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god, foster mom
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GOD, FOSTER MOM

Anyway, pretty much all I want to do is look at kittens.

Today, when I went in there to feed the mom cat, all four kittens came tearing out the door at once. I was literally herding cats.

Steely Dan, who had some suspicions already, happened to be looming largely in the hall when it happened.

He was not amused.

Oh, he’ll come around. I’m not worried. But right now, he’s huffed outside with his ears back.

Meanwhile, all boopy kittens are safely back in their room, with a pillow in that space under the door, the way I jerry-rigged it when Jodie Foster was here, so they don’t escape.

I will talk at you soon, but meanwhile, won’t you enjoy some vicious cat fights?

Insane cat lady-ly,

Jooon