Eyes that talk like cats

Turns out, I locked Steely Dan in the attic all night, so I’m feeling pretty good about my cat mothering skills.

I went up there for some paperwork, which I FOUND, by the way, and then I took it downstairs (there I go again, calling the attic “upstairs” like a giant nutbar) and pored over it obsessively. (I was trying to see how old my roof is. Let’s say it’s, oh, 21. Not only can your roof drink, but also your roof might need replacing, right?) (Crap.)

I didn’t think about how that gray ass GOES UP THERE, goes upstairs, every chance he gets.

Last night, before bed, I opened the front door and tried calling him in, a fruitless effort I make nightly. Well, he’s with his other family, I thought, shutting the door and giving up.

That’s why it alarmed me when I heard him meowing this morning. Usually when I get up, he’s staring at me through some window, with the intensity of a thousand suns. But he never meows to come in. That would be undignified. Unseemly.

“Steely Daaaan!” I called out my front door this morning, a reprise of last night’s siren song. Am certain the neighbors can’t get enough of me. “Who’s she gonna call next, Kajagoogoo?”

I was really worried. Why was he meowing so loudly? Was my gray prince of a kitten hurt? Don’t tell him I said that.

“Steely Daaaan! Kitty!?” I called out the back door, which is not a euphemism.

And then I saw the papers on my table. And right then I knew.

He wasn’t even that huffy about it, till he discovered I’m also out of canned food. After spending a night in an attic like a bat, he was rewarded with dry GIRL food that he only eats to annoy Iris and Lily. He enjoys sticking his head in their bowls when they’re eating, just to be an asshole.

The reason I’m out of cat food is I’m on a very strict $16-a-day budget till next Friday. I’m having a crown put on, and I think we can all agree I’ve deserved one of those for years. But it’s going to cost me $750 out of pocket–not that I ever put money in my pockets because look what happened to my ATM card when I put IT in my pocket on whiskey sour night–so in order to pay for  it, I have to live small this pay period.

So far, I’ve failed terribly at living on $16 a day. On Monday I managed till I filled a prescription at $22.

Then on Tuesday I ran out of gas. I don’t mean you saw me on the side of the highway carrying a can, but I was on the last dot of m’gage. So I pulled in to the dodgy gas station that’s on my way home from work, a gas station I almost never go to because they let some random dude run over and offer to fill your tank for you, a guy who doesn’t work there. And then I always tip him because he filled my tank for me and I know that’s how he’s eeking out a living, but the whole thing makes me uncomfortable, and it ends up costing me more.

But of course on Tuesday he wasn’t there. I guess he felt he’s earned vacation time. And this was the ONE TIME I coulda used that guy, because I put my card in, and it asked me if it was credit or debit, and then it said, “Card rejected. Please see cashier.”

Once, this friend of mine in LA asked me to take her to this event, and she lived seriously far from me, and driving to take a friend somewhere is no small task in LA. We’re talking this will be an extra hour both there and back. But I didn’t want to seem like a giant bitch (oh, June…), so I said okay. I drove an hour home from work, ate whatever standing up, then got BACK in the car to pick up HER ass so we could go to our event.

I ran out of gas that day, too, and had to go to this really dodgy gas station in Hollywood, and the next day my identity was stolen. There’s someone going around right now saying, “No, I’M June Gardens!”

So I’m suspicious of gas pumps in general, and I’m REALLY suspicious when it says, “Please see cashier.” So what I did Tuesday was, I got in the car and left.

With guess what. The flappy thing open on my car and the gas cap on my roof.

I drove about a block before it dawned on me I’d done that, so I pulled into a parking lot and walked along the gutter back to the dodgy gas station, looking for that cap.

I found it. It had been run over already.

So I took what’s left of my gas cap and went to the gas station I’ve always resented because they shut off my gas one time when I looked at my phone while pumping. Oh fuck you, explosion police.

So Tuesday cost me gas and a gas cap.

Yesterday I managed to spend nothing, but I did also manage to close my cat in an attic for 12 hours, so.

Just seven more days till I get paid again, but I still have to live small, because crown. I have to pay for this crown. On the 18th. The 18th is crown day. Oooo, what if the royal baby is born on my crown day? That’ll mean I’m royalty.

Oh, June. Delusional June.

Tonight, with my allotted $16, my pal Jo and I are possibly painting the town. Her brother died, which is really sad. I met him, and he was cool. The visitation is tonight, and I’m going to that, and then if there’s time, afterward we’re going to go to the First Friday stuff downtown so she can kind of have a break. We might even pop in on Kit, who of course has to work the First Friday stuff downtown, as she owns a, you know, store there.

Also, someone has moved into Peg’s. They’re busy unpacking and I think building something in the back, there. I’d introduce myself but every time I’ve seen them they look busy or I’m in a robe, so.

I’d better get to work. I have so much to do there that I forget to go pee. By the end of the day lately, my eyes are exhausted. They’re like, no to make us see to drive home. We done seeing.

Eye talk. I don’t know why eyes talk like cats. Especially 52-year-old eyes.

See you. BAH.
Joob

 

 

 

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The dodgy tip

It was laundry. That was the smell [see yesterday’s post, ya boob].

Apparently I washed a load of clothes back when I was on the phone with Martha Washington, and I’d forgotten to put those clothes in the dryer, so for 8 centuries they were festering there in the damp, and it’s been warm out.

Guess what’s going now. Is it the washer?

The other news is that for the past three weeks or more, I’ve had a dilemma that I couldn’t tell you about.

Another company wanted me. They desired me. I was IN DEMAND!

It’s a publishing company I’ve freelanced for since 2012. I’m certain you recall March of 2012, when I had a giant project due for them.

Ah, yes, June. That giant–GET OUT’CHER OWN ASS AND CARRY ON, JUAN.

Anyway, I’ve worked for them on and off ever since, and several weeks ago the executive editor wanted to meet in real life, finally, so we got up one night and I thought, “I wonder if she wants a job at my company.”

People are always trying to work at my company. People were always crossing rooms to talk to Maxine (When Harry Met Sally™).

But she wasn’t. She was trying to get me over to her. She wanted me to be a senior editor, and be all fancy, and so on.

So for three weeks, I’ve had that opportunity in front of me, and I had to think about where I work now, and what it’d be like there. So these past few weeks, when I’ve been being hilarious

Let me try that sentence anew.

So these past few weeks, when you’ve smiled wanly at me every once in awhile, I’ve been consumed with the idea that I might switch jobs. I even considered moving to Winston-Salem, where I’d be closer to said publishing house.

But in the end, I stayed at my company. For I like it there, and I’ve been there seven years, and it’s six minutes away. I fit in. Kind of.

Then once I made my final decision, I had to take work home this weekend. Taaa-daaaaa!

For it IS the weekend, for me. We have Good Friday off, and THANK YOU, WEIRD BIBLE BELT. We even got to leave at 3:00 yesterday, although I stayed till about 3:45 to try to get more work done, and THANK YOU, WEIRD JUNE BELT.

As he was leaving, my boss’s boss, fmr., tried to out-Easter-pun me. He’s known as the pun MASTER at work, but walked away, defeated, when I came back at him with,

“Why are you so cross? You’d think it was Maunday, not Thursday.”

Nailed it.

So because I’d had a stressy, thinky several weeks, and because it was warm out, and because we were out at 3:00, I headed downtown. To drive all the old men crazy.

Dear June: GET.OVER.THAT.LINE.

img_6534.jpgI like to go downtown, so to speak. First of all, the mental status of old men is important to me, and also because it keeps growing and changing, so to speak. I can make anything dirty. What is wrong with me? Perhaps the old men have driven me crazy.

On the drive to find parking, I saw two coworkers and then also two young girls kissing against their car, a thing that likely did drive all the old men crazy.

IMG_6531I admired the sites beyond young-girl love, and I also shopped and didn’t buy anything. You’re welcome, fledgling downtown Greensboro!

IMG_6532IMG_6535They have all these cool new stores now over in the once-dodgy end of downtown, a place I never went unless I was desperate to get to the bakery that was way down at the dodgy tip. But now none of it’s dodgy anymore!

I stopped at store (not the store above. That place above is super cool) and had The World’s Worst Tarot Reading®, where I was told my Workers Comp claim will come out in my favor (??) and that I feel trapped in my marriage (??) and won’t move from Greensboro due to my four kids (!!?!).

So.

Do you feel it’s possible that tarot cards are bullshit?

Oh, she also told me three people are very critical of me right now and FUCK YOU, THREE PEOPLE.

IMG_6542Eventually I joined my coworkers for a drink, and I really had a good time, and then when I went home I saw other coworkers on Instagram, drinking at another downtown bar, and I was all, Was there a cooler, subversive happy hour that I was not privy to?

FUCK YOU, OTHER SUBVERSIVE COOLER DRINKERS.

Anyway, now that it’s my day off, I have to go to the grocer, as apparently I need to shop in 1930s London. Maybe I’ll even go to the greengrocer.

My alarm went off today, because I have it set to go off M–F and this is F, but I shut it off and said to Edsel, “You know what we get to do today, Eds? We get to sleep in.” And I swear to you he did his dog sigh/moan and put his snout on my neck and we slept like that for another hour.

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Eds need to unwine. Need dis day off.

Anyway, I hafta go to the grocer because am seriously out of ERR’THANG. I have no beverages. Well, coffee. But that’s not a bev so much as an addic. But last night I had no bottles of water, no soda, no V-8. The only thing in my fridge was a disgusting black beer that Ned left here when he came to get his cat, which is NOT A EUPHEMISM.

The point is, I tried to drink it. So desperate was I. I realize I have a, you know, TAP, but blech.

IMG_6544

IMG_6546That was not a successful jaunt. June’s Legend of Blackbeer.

I like how I have my earrings on with my pajamas. I’m Aladdin, over here.

I will leave you now, and wish you a good Friday.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

heeeee [is risen]

June

For me, it’s not so much March as Hobble

Rabbit, rabbit.

Why do people say that at the beginning of the month? Sarah Jessica Parker always does (she’s my Instagram friend), and because she does it, I think it’s cute, but all my life I have no idea why people say it.

But isn’t this literally a rabbit, rabbit month? Isn’t Easter this month? My calendar doesn’t tell me.

IMG_5702.jpgMy mother got me this calendar for Christmas. It’s vintage pictures of dogs, which you’d think Edsel would rip up, given his love for other canines.

IMG_5456.jpgGuess who chews it instead.

Anyway, I love an Irish terrier. A friend in LA had two. They were adorable. So wiry! She rode horses, this friend did, and she’d take the Irish terriers to the stable with her, and they were thrilled.

I lived near there, and if you wanted to see my friend, you pretty much had to go to the stables. She once said they should just automatically deposit her paycheck to it.

The point is, I remember going there one night and sitting on the side, there, watching her ride under a full moon, with the hills of Burbank in the background. It’s such a cool memory. When did I go from being a peaceful person to a chaotic one?

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steeelee not shur. he on fence about it. hah.

Do you think Steely Dan ever laughs, or does he more sort of just smirk?

Speaking of how I need to get out more and stop thinking about my pets, I went to see all the live-action shorts last night. Not that bermudas and gyms were dancing about.

I saw the wrestling competition between madras and culottes!

Oh, can the jorts ever dance. Could you believe?

Speaking of how there’s something wrong with me because I hang around pets too much, I went to the movies last night to see the live-action shorts. Now I’m all set for the Oscars. I’ve seen all the bitches up in there, which is how they plan to announce them.

“And now, all the bitches up in are will be announced.”

The shorts were good, although all of them were incredibly depressing. The khakis pleated with me to nominate them, but I don’t know.

June. Stop.

Really, though, when did “good” have to mean “earnestly depressing”? Can’t we just see a nice story in 20 minutes? This year’s crop included a school shooting in America, racism that lead to murder in the ’50s in the South, more murder in Somalia, and a deaf child whose parents suck ass.

These were not Richard Simmons’ cheerful ribbed shorts, man.

But now I can watch smugly, never thinking, “I wonder what this movie was about.”

Also, at work, they asked those of us who are into movies what we thought would win this year, and I don’t want to cockblock their surprise, so I won’t say which one I am, but they had us each reenact one of the movie posters of the best-picture nominees. Let’s just say I had to lie on the studio floor at work. In a dress.

I’d better go. I had some…trouble last night, in the stomach-al arena, and I wouldn’t go to work at all, but I’m in the middle of that huge project that I do at the end of every month that I launch into dramatically on the regular, and no one would be able to just pick it up and finish it, as I have my own method. So. I’ll go. I’ll hobble into work with my broken bone and queasiness, and no one will notice anyway because copy editor? Who cares?

Unless there’s a mistake. That’s how you know you’re good. When no one notices what you do. It’s odd, but it’s true.

I guess this post about seeing the shorts was short.

March on,

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!”

IMG_4977.jpg

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

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.

Photo on 1-6-18 at 8.55 PM #2.jpg
Comic-book effect
Photo on 1-6-18 at 8.51 PM #7.jpg
Andy Warhol effect
Photo on 1-6-18 at 8.56 PM #4
Steely Dan is evil effect

Busy executive

I have to give a presentation today at work, so I’m distracted. But when I return to you, to your arms, where will hug in the dark of night, remind me to tell you about sitting next to The World’s Worst Person at the manicure place.

Demonstrably,

June

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Proofreader’s gang sign I made up. It’s a carat. Google fucking it. Also, note the remaining dregs of the Dean & Deluca candy ALWAYS NEARBY. Why so chubby, gansta?

June pops her head out of the cupboard (TM Dick Whitman’s mom. RIP)

A few things. A few matters. Some housekeeping. Don’t you fucking hate people who say that? Is there anything you want to read less about than someone’s “housekeeping matters”? I mean, other than how little you want to hear the “let me back up” details.

I didn’t get to go to my work Christmas party. I had to work, like I was Cinderella. And all the powers that be said to me,”You’d better not stay here and work. We’d better see you at that Christmas party.” But I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I really had to get this thing done or it wouldn’t get done on time. I have to work on it today, too.

Then the next day I felt very sad for self, looking at people’s Instagram shots of our very lovely party at the lovely country club.

Alo, regarding my windfall from our last conversation/poll, June did something responsible.

[I’ll give everyone a moment to gather him- or herself.] [Like there are any hims reading this.]

When I get paid on the 1st, I use that paycheck to cover utilities, credit cards (fmr., as the only credit card I have now is the vet one, which, hello, keeps having a balance and why? Why, one wonders), the car payment, bullshit like that.

And why do I have to pay for electricity AND gas? Aren’t they the same thing, practically? Annoying.

Then the 15th, I pay my mortgage. Technically it’s due on the 1st, but they give you a “grace period” of the 16th. Why not just say it’s due on the 16th, then? I don’t know.

Anyway, I refinanced m’car recently, and they charge me less if I let them do an automatic withdrawal, and they insist on doing that on the 15th. So for several sad months now, my car payment and my mortgage come out of the same paycheck, leaving me with about 11 dollars that pay period.

So because I was flush this time? I paid my mortgage AND all my regular bills, to get myself out of that cycle, and now the first of the month will be sort of sad, but the 15th will always be really good, so I can save

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

save some of that flush-15th money to tide me over for the billsy 1st.

God, June, tell us more. Tell us about a couple housekeeping matters.

Also,

IMG_E1922.JPGWho sent me this? Weeks ago this was on my doorstep, with treats for the pets and so on, and it was lovely, but no note.

IMG_2392.jpgAnd who sent me this? Came with a note about being glad I had a cyst, but no signature.

Whoever you anonymous gift-givers are, thank you!!

And finally, last night I started my end-of-the-year video, and even though I have 28 more days of this year, I am presenting it to you now, because really, what is going to possibly happen that I’ll need to include it in my veeeedeo? Hmmm? What?

Every time there’s a picture of a table, it’s from yet another date I went on that proved unfruitful. If you wanna see it full screen, click on the video’s title, and it’ll take you to YouTube where you can choose “full screen” in the lower right.

Sigh.

Sighs matter,

Junederella

The one where June misses Halloween

For years, we’ve been doing this project at work that is what you might call detailed.

If you’re a proofreader or a copy editor, all three of you, it has everything that takes time. Names you need to check? Yes. Numbers? Yes. Details that’re listed in several places and they all must match? Yes. Fact-checking up the ying? Oui.

Is it really important, so you can’t mess up? Yes, yes, yes.

I hadn’t worked on this thing in years, but last month I did, and found all sorts of errors that would excite only another copy editor (a word was lowercase in a few places, then capped in a few others, then…ready, three copy editors?…BACK TO CAPS AGAIN!) and I was extremely in love with self. This is the shit that gives us life.

So, I found all these errors, and was excited, then I got the thing again at blueline and found an extra word (“to”) in a paragraph.

What’s a blueline, June? This is riveting, we promise.

It’s the final, final version of something before it goes to print. And lots of what we do at work anymore doesn’t even GET printed, but print is scary. You screw up with print, that mistake is there forever. Or worse, that mistake means you have to reprint, and that’s never good.

The point is, because this thing is so huge and detailed and so on, I worked with the manager of the project and we worked out a schedule to determine when I’d read this thing, and when I’d again reread it, because detailed.

That schedule started yesterday. I’d had it on my calendar for weeks: Big project starts today. I was supposed to take all day yesterday and all day today on it.

Then next weekend I take it home and read it again.

When I got to work yesterday, it wasn’t ready yet, as everyone working on it is on business trips. They’re working on it from said trips, so it’d be with me any second.

“Hey, June, here’s another project. Can you work on this today?”

Well.

The thing is, I was just sitting there waiting, unsure of when it’d get to me. So I hemmed and I hawed, and I finally took the project, which turned out to be (wait for it) a lot of stuff, and detailed, and so on.

Naturally, the second I began, I got an email. “You can start that other big project now!”

Yeah.

Then I got two other emails from two other accounts I work on. “Here’s some work. Can we also discuss it in detail?”

And, “Here’s a project. Can you not just edit it, but write this and this? Here’s what I was thinking and what I want and…”

I had to write both those poor folks back and say, I can’t even read this whole email right now.

So I worked. And worked. I hadn’t put on my Frida costume yet, because everything that could have gone wrong yesterday morning DID go wrong, including THE CITY SHUTTING DOWN MY FREEWAY EXIT to get to work, so the plan was I’d get dressed at lunch.

Naturally I worked through lunch, then when I did get away, I had to run errands, so okay. I wouldn’t dress up.

“The costume contest is starting on the dock,” I heard the front desk announce, at 2:00. For the first time in my seven Halloweens there, I did not watch the contest, much less participate, as I had planned. I don’t even know what people dressed up as.

At 4:00, kids were coming for candy, so around 3:00 I just took my computer and went home, so I could work in peace. I was that curmudgeon.

Kit was supposed to come over last night, help me hand out the candies, and I had to cancel on her.

And by the way, just like my morning, everything that COULD go wrong with me getting the work and doing the work, did go wrong.

And truth be told, by 6:00, I was done. I could not make myself think any more. I’d been thinking so intensely. So I shut off the computer and lay blankly for awhile, till

“Trick or treat!

“Wooo! WOO WOO WOOO WO!” snarled Eds.

If Edsel were a normal dog, we could do things like I could dress up as Little Red Riding Hood (Medium-to-Large, Depending, Red Riding Hood) and he could dress as the big, bad wolf. He could sit next to me nicely, with his gummy fangs or whatever, and everyone who came to trick or treat could say “Oh, there’s that cute dog that we pet on his walks” and so on.

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would like salty dog, or maybe banana dakkeri.

Instead, Edsel dressed as banished-to-the-back-room guy.

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wate. dis not jist for blawg? eds really back heer?

I did not photograph trick or treaters, even though you want me to be the weird woman who photographs every fucking thing, because how, exactly, was I going to ask, “Can I photograph your children and put them online?”

The best parts were the one kid who said, “Oh, please, not a Snickers.” I gave that child coal I had left over from my own Christmas stocking.

And then this very small person just started barreling in. “You have a doggie!” she said, and my reputation precedes me. “Yes, I–”

“I want to see the doggie!” Her parents were all Ebony, don’t go in that lady’s house. Ebony didn’t give a shit. She wanted to see the doggie.

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let chyld see doggie. it totlee safe.

And finally, I saw Ava’s family. Of course, I recognized Jane right away, with her June hair and her attitude. In years past, she’s been Katniss or whoever that is, and other popular costumes of the day, and I’m all, Why aren’t you dressed in a pumpkin head or a plastic mask from the grocery store the way I would have been at your age?

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But this year, she was just barely dressed as anything, and was taking a smaller child around, so I guess she’s aging out of this process. Jane is, I’d estimate, between seven and 19 years old.

Her brother I met way, way back, when I just had Tallulah. He’s the kid I ran into on a walk once, when Talu had been rolling in the blackberries or boysenberries or whatever the fuck grows in my yard that she used to roll in and get purple spots.

“I wish I had a yellow and blue dog,” I remember him saying. He asked about Lu’s breed for awhile, and told me about his dog. “What kind of dog is he?” I asked. I hadn’t met his dog yet, who in fact is an enormous, calm, steel-gray 100% pit who is Ava’s best friend.

“Oh, he’s a pet bull and a beagle,” that kid said at the time. And that is when I knew he was full of the shit.

The point is, a group of teenaged boys came to the door, boys who really should not even be trying to trick or treat, and he had cool hair, but I didn’t register that was old pet-bull-and-a-beagle, there.

“Ava’s gotten really big,” he said to me, and right then I knew. Oh, it’s that kid!

He’s somewhere between 11 and 32.

So, in reality, I guess I had the kind of Halloween most adults have who don’t work at a creative agency. I mean, I worked all day and handed out candy at night and The End. BUT I’M USED TO COSTUMES AND PARTIES AT WORK.

I gotta go. I’m slap in the middle of that project, and when you think of June today, and you will, think of me bent unergonomically over details. Deets. June checks the deets.

I know that seems scary in general, but when it comes to copy editing, I am stellar at the deets. Copy editing and stalking boyfriends: June is the deets master at those.

Okay, boo.

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edz can come out nows?

You’re so already out, Eds.

Luff,

Joooon

 

 

 

June goes back to work

I gave up having cable TV about a year ago, because basically I was paying $110 a month to watch Bravo. And while I DO miss the old movie channel (a LOT), I kind of like having Amazon Prime and also, way down the rung, Netflix. Continue reading “June goes back to work”

Spa Day

Thursday, August 3, 2017

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

6:39: Alarm goes off, hit snooze.

6:48: ”

6:57: “…..

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

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

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

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

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

7:50 Begin blogging.

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

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

Hair still completely soaked.

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

Hair still completely soaked.

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

9:13: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:14: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:15: PING! New deadline ass–

WHAT THE FUCK.

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

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

9:16: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:17: PING! New–OH STOP.

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

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

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

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

Hair is still completely soaked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“HOW CAN YOU BE SO CALM?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8:30: Try to stop freelance work.

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

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

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

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

10:32: REM.

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

 

Try to guess the swear word I use when I hit Publish then realize I’ve not added a title.

I knew I was going to a party yesterday afternoon, so I planned my ensemble in my mind so that I could do my freelance work in peace. I showered, did my hair, put on my kabuki makeup

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Fuck with me and die

Continue reading “Try to guess the swear word I use when I hit Publish then realize I’ve not added a title.”

Facing June Addiction

Yesterday, I got up early to go to the allergy doctor. I hurried around, and tore over there to be on time, and when I got there, right at 8:00?

They were closed.

I walked up to the door and knocked. No lights on. They'd given me paperwork, so I opened it. "8:00," it read. I left the paperwork in their mailbox in a huff, and went home, annoyed. I could SEE my workplace from the doctor's office, but I'd taken the morning off and goddammit, I was sticking with that. If you don't need half a day off three weeks after Christmas, when do you need half a day off?

At 8:30, I called there, irate. Of course I'd called before then, and got the cloying, "If this is a true medical emergency, please hang up and dial 911."

Why don't you go fuck yourself? I HATE that condescending message. And also, what's with doctor's offices not letting you leave a goddamn message? What is this, 1972?

I also hate, "Please pay close attention, as our prompts have changed." YOUR PROMPTS HAVE NOT FUCKING CHANGED. SHUT UP.

The point is, I finally got someone. "Yes," I said, because I always start these things with"Yes…" I told the woman my woes, and she looked me up on her screen.

Name? I told her.

Date of birth? I told her.

Address? OH MY GOD JUST TELL ME WHAT'S UP.

Turns out my appointment is on the 31st. …yeah. I can remember the appointment lady saying, "How about Monday?" I remember it. I don't know what happened, there. And I even said back, "I'll see you Monday, then!" as I left.

Anyway, the good news is that because I had all that extra time yesterday, I found a freelance gig. They are planning to send me work already, a thing that Faithful Reader LaUral had something to do with, so thanks, LaUral.

This is good, because money? I'm hurtin'. During my year abroad I got all my credit cards and my car paid off, which was great, then I got here and Tallulah got sick and my car broke and hello, country song. Plus all my freelance work dried up, and it kind of saddens me that one has to take extra work beyond work to make ends meet these days.

But there it is, now I have some work, so good. Because my tank is on empty and I have $60 till January 31, which by the way is the day of my doctor visit, GOD. Everyone knows that.

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In the meantime, my tenant, fmr., came over to work out again, a thing my cat, current, thoroughly enjoyed. That's why the Lily is a tramp.

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We had to put old Obssessy McStalkerson, old Fred ASTARE, old Melanie Sniffeth, in the back room, because he is incapable of letting us be while we do Tracy. He down dogs, he rolls around, he sniffs us, he–OH MY GOD EDSEL. So he had a happy new year, in jail. That's only funny if you know It's a Wonderful Life by heart, and who doesn't?

It's nice to have someone hate Tracy with me. "Geez," Tenant, fmr., will say, as Tracy robotically lifts her leg in the same way for the 59th time and looks like she could do 100 more with no problem. Do y'all remember when I made Kaye do Tracy Anderson with me and she almost real-life unfriended me? Anyway, Tenant, fmr., will be here again Wednesday and not the 31st.

I have to go. I had a deal with myself that I'd read 200 books this year, and so far I've read a really dumb Terri McMillan book, a really dumb book I got out of the little take-a-book-leave-a-book library in our park, a book I realized when I was done is a trilogy and now I have to read the rest even though dumb. And now I'm reading a relationship book. I want to keep going on that one this morning before work.

It's really weird. I found the book in my closet–my closet I hardly ever go in. It's a new book, and I'd clearly starting reading it at some point because a page is dog-eared, but I don't remember buying it and I don't remember reading one single word of it.

I even looked in my Amazon emails to see when I got it, and nothing. I showed it to Tenant, fmr., and she didn't leave it here.

Anyway, it's exactly perfect for me. It's exactly the problems I had, and there are ways to fix myself, and I was tempted to contact Ned to say, THIS BOOK IS US. HERE'S HOW WE FIX IT. But (a), we're in a no contact thing for a reason and (2) I don't think he's ready to hear it. Clearly I wasn't when I first got this book. I don't recall one word of it.

It's called Facing Love Addiction, and it talks about the Love Addict/Love Avoidant duo and how they interact with each other, and why they are the way they are and the whole time I was reading it I was all, OH MY GOD! So now I'm at the back of the book where you have to do writing exercises, which I did last night after T,f. left, till my hand hurt.

So, that's exciting. Because between you and me, I was baffled that I could get into something so intense and dramatic and on/off like that. I mean, I did that when I was 22, but I figured well, I'm 22. I had no idea I was capable of something this insane at 51. I thought I'd grown out of acting that way. But clearly I haven't. I have been ashamed, really, of how all-consuming this relationship has been. If I were my friend I'd be so sick of me by now.

So it's good to have hope that I can maybe not do this again.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, or maybe on the 31st.

June gives it up early. When I post this to FB, about 17 of my exes will nod their damn heads.

I'm just now forming the thought that all this time I've been feeding Steely Dan too much. I thought he was much younger, and those oh-so-easy-to-read instructions on his canned food said to feed him three times a day. But now he's seven months old, and I'll bet I don't have to feed him at lunch anymore.

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I wanted to capture him looking incredulously at the camera, but instead he's editorializing again, covering my offensive coffee with his judgey kitten foot. Once he learns to talk, he'll probably be all, dat bad for yuu, yuu no. make yuu jittree.

I don't know why petspeak needs to be misspelled. They're not writing it.

Anyway, as you know from your Big Book of June Events, tomorrow is my 10-year anniversary of blogging, and I spent 87 hours worrying about which photos to put in my 10-year video, cause I'd be all, yeah, it's good, but is it TEN YEARS good. And then I realized there were about 15 pets to cover and who should I leave out and basically the whole thing was hard. Life is hard. The point is, I finally finished it and got it on YouTube only to break up with Ned and have all the photos of him piss me off now, but even still, the damn thing is a retrospective of my past 10 years and he's in my last five years, so.

THE POINT IS, you guys started LOOKING for it. A coworker, who's read me for like four weeks and doesn't know any of the players, was even all, "I went on YouTube to try to see that video early and I can't find it."

Sigh.

So yesterday I put it on Facebook, but here it is for the rest of us. Videovus, for the rest of us. You know I have no idea what that's from? I know everyone goes on about it and laughs and high fives, but I am clueless. It must be a show I never cared about, like that one show about radio with Maura Tierney or the one about people working in cubicles where Roy and Jim or Roy and Pam or someone were always about to get married or something.

Oh my god anyway, here, without further ado, a day early because you guys are terrible, is my video in celebration of 10 years of blogging!

Taa-daaaa! I love that the shot they used, here, is Dick Whitman's mom. Cutest thing, ever. Plus I look good. That's what matters. I remember this is before I met Ned, and I was dating a different boy, and that was the first day we ever Did It.

What's with my eyebrows in that photo?

Oh! And speaking of eyebrows, I think Ima make it till payday!! On Monday, I had $21 to last till Thursday, and then I went to see It's a Wonderful Life at my old theater because it's what I do, so with the ticket and parking I had $10 left, but here it is Wednesday and that $10 is in tact and I have fish and spaghetti and you know what this is like? Remember in It's a Wonderful Life when they had the two single dollars left at 6 p.m.? That's what it's like.

A few of you sent me donations to celebrate my anniversary of bothering you for 10 years, and that's exciting and very kind! It will be here in a few days and then I will be high on the hog, man! And I know you guys talked in the comments about everyone sending me 10 dollars for 10 years, but I know it's most expensive-ist time of the damn year, and I do not expect that at all. Just that you're reading me is nice. I mean, who wants to read my crap every day? You do.

I didn't want to go off on this tangent. Want to save it for tomorrow. So I will.

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Paula H&B, faithful reader, found the most ridiculously wonderful collection of middle-aged women in mid-century standing next to ridiculous Christmas trees, and I am in love. I am obsessed. I cannot get enough of these photos. They're my favorite things ever.

You know how I get about old photos.

I finished my cards last night, no thanks to my roommates.

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The entire time was me moving cat bodies. Oh! And here's Austere Deer card. Chris and Lilly, don't look.

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Do you really believe the "joyful" new year part? Cause those cards are staring at you in Personal Growth. (It's a When Harry Met Sally line. Sue me.) Those cards are the cards that insist you put on sunscreen before you can run out to the water. Those cards are first in line for flu shots. Those cards would never be 51 and living on $10 all week.

Also, I take issue with those cards capitalizing "New Year" the way it's used.

I'd better get in the shower, and I want you to–

goddammit.

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He's up there eatin' the big cats' food. That jerk. Look at his little back footie, though.

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Why do we have to have all these cats? [Looks behind her at whomever's responsible.]

…Oh.

Talk at you tomorrow. As I have done almost every day for the last 10 damn years.

Decadely,

June

P.S. Look up there at my goddamn nose. Son of a BITCH I hate my nose.

“I Supervised June.” A scathing guest post by my boss, fmr.

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When I first became June’s boss, she brought up the idea of me writing a guest post for her blog—a whole “I Supervised June” thing. I said sure. Now I’m not her boss, and I have time to write the post. Those two things are not related.

I think June expects me to tell you all what a challenging person she is to manage. I think she expects me to say:

That she’s a drama queen. Not really. I’ve managed rafts of interns and no person is as much a drama queen as a college senior.

That she’s got bizarre taste in desk décor. You all may have seen the “It’s not mean if it’s hilarious” cross stitch she has and the like. Again not really the bizarrest, in my experience. One of my mentors had a freeze-dried octopus in a plastic bag pinned to his office bulletin board—for years. I think he snuck it through customs on his way back from Malaysia. He also had a model airplane made from a deer mandible that he got on a trip to South America. The teeth were still attached.

That she never listens to what I asked her to do. In truth, I think she’s psychic. I have a belief that it takes three things to do well here at our company: Make friends in other departments, have a creative outlet other than what you write and edit here, and be vocal when you’ve got too much to do. I didn’t have to tell her any of that when I became her boss: June, as you all well know, has plenty of friends at work, has a creative outlet that she works on daily, and if I ever had missed that she was overcommitted at work because I was, too, I could just check the blog and catch up.

That she takes too much time off. Nope. See above on college interns. Hire them their final semester, and they’ll leave for spring break, midterms, commencement rehearsal, parents’ weekend, senior class birdwatching and teambuilding, Greek senior beach bonding and then ask for more time so they can actually study and pass their finals.

That I roll my eyes every time she has a migraine. Actually, I’m very sympathetic. I used to get them almost every week in my 20s. The worst one I had, I thought that the side of my face was melting off. I’ve got them controlled now, but I would drive her home if she had one and needed to leave the office midday.

That I think she’s weird for blogging. Well…. I do think that I couldn’t possibly blog about losing a pet or train sex with Ned (I’m putting myself in her shoes; I never had any sex with Ned and in fact have never met him), but I do enjoy reading her blog very much. I had no idea how the Naughty Professor (who started working at our company before I did) found love again after he lost his longtime partner until I read that post. And I have known Griff since 1998, and almost hyperventilated when I binge read his/June’s Twitter feed for the first time. (*Fun fact: Griff is squeamish. I once unintentionally made him turn white when he overheard me telling a coworker about a bad Red Cross blood donation experience.)

So, sorry, June. She and I actually have a lot in common. We’re both Midwesterners and I make her do the Michigan hand map thing sometimes. We both think Meyers Briggs is awesome and explains much of how the world works. We have some of the same shoes and why I’ve never seen her at DSW at the same time as I’m there, it has to be because I was in the clearance section while she was checking out and we just missed one another. We both like this corner bar in town that has blackened green beans. I don’t know if she likes their green beans, but she should. We both know and think her neighbor Peg is awesome; Peg and I used to go to the same church and worked on a big mission trip fundraising silent auction for several years together. We both think there is no frigate like a book. We both adore The Poet; she set me and my husband up on a blind date.

We have a lot that we’re not alike about, too. I’m very allergic to cats, I have kids, I think California is evil (ok, not evil, but I’ve never had that pull to it that so many other people do) and she’s got a zippier car (I heart my minivan).  

Anyway. That’s what it’s like to be June’s boss.

Nah nah nah nah

My friend Paula sent me this, and there is just…yeah, I can't begin.

 

Okay, no, I really can begin. The filthy hippie, that dynamo behind them clapping her hands, THAT WOMAN'S SWEATER, the dummy! Oh, god, the dummy. The choreography.

God, 1972 was a weird time.

Anyway. Another work week is upon us, and yay. Although, really, I worked all weekend, if you consider watching Game of Thrones till your hand gets chopped off and you wear it around your neck work. And who doesn't?

I like it at my job, so going to work is not a dreadful proposition for me. Of course, I SAY that and now today will be awful. But what about you? Do you hate it? Are you stuck there? Why? Or are you jobless and want to bitch slap anyone who even HAS a job? I remember that feeling when I was laid off. Twice in two years. That horrible nagging scary no-money feeling. Oy.

But for me, I've had this job now for a few years, and I'm grateful for it, and even better, I like it. Especially now that my job has changed. It was supposed to be a relatively small change, but so far it's dramatically different and it's great. For me. The Other Copy Editor probably wants to punch me clean in the face.

Today I'm meeting with a friend after work, and tomorrow I have my student, then Wednesday I have my therapist who has had DREADFUL luck lately, and I wish I could just tell you all about the horrible things that've happened to my therapist, because you'd roll back from the desk and say, "Oh my GOD!" but of course I can't do that. You know me and my decorum. I'm here. I'm decorum-y. Get used to it.

I think it's possible that I have nothing to do on Thursday, and I will probably wander from room to room, lost and afraid. Then Friday one of my friends is having a birthday party and there's my week.

I say that like thearpy-ing me isn't dreadful luck as it is. Maybe one day she can write a tell-all book. I Therapied June. By Beleaguered Therapist Susan Johnson.

Her name isn't remotely Susan Johnson. Susan Johnson is Dudley Moore's awful girlfriend in Arthur. "She's quite beautiful when the light hits her just so. Of course, you can't always depend on that light."

All right, I have to get in the shower. I am taking Woof and Mouth Disease to dog day care today, a thing I stupidly mentioned first thing, and as I write this, Edsel has his chin on my lap and is wriggling. we go now? how bout now? Do now be good time?

Last night, Tallulah was illegally in the living room, with her front legs in my lap, and I was scritching her head. It was getting late, and I said, "Tallulah, I think it's time for bed." I expected her to get off me and galumph heavily to her dog bed, but instead she looked at me for a long time, and turned around and went straight up the stairs to our old bed.

And that is how Talu and I slept in my old bed together last night. She had two different woof dreams, where I had to pet her to get her quiet. buf! buf buf buf! she'd say, sort of under her breath. buf buf BUF. She was all jerky, too, like she was really giving someone the business, with the barking and the getting up on her hind-ies. feer lu now. she on hind legses. lu come at you wif three feets of terrur. and three feets of terrier.

She's probably taller than three feet when she's on her hind legs, right? Now I gotta get the tape measure when Ned gets home.

When Ned was a kid, he and his brothers would take his poor mom's yardstick and do whatever boys do with yardsticks. Beat each other, whatever. The point is, they were forever breaking her yardsticks, and she knitted or crocheted or maybe both, and apparently one needs measuring tools for these endeavors.

One day she drove up and opened the car door. Everyone was in the driveway. "Here is my new yardstick," she announced. "This is my yardstick. It is not for fighting with, or playing with, or for using in any way. You are not to touch this yardstick, is that understood?"

And with that, she climbed out of the car, and the yardstick caught on the door frame and snapped in two.

I am so glad I never had boys.

Okay, I am really going. Oh! (Somebody get the sheep hook.) Here's my latest Purple Clover.

She died doing what she loved…

My head is killing me, and despite today's title, I'm not dead but I wish I were. I've had this damn migraine on and off since Thursday, and today it's bad bad bad. As Olivia Soprano used to say, I wish the good Lord would just take me.

However, since I have to blog anyway because Y'ALL ARE RELENTLESS, I thought I'd ask you to play a game with me. Yesterday at work, my coworker who sits in my row but who is the only non-copy editor to sit in our row, so you can imagine his fun all day.

"Would you hyphenate this?"

"Well, I might, but AP Style wouldn't."

"Yes, AP Style wouldn't, but the ancient Romans used to hyphenate it, and based on a little-known study about the Middle East during the Achaemenid Empire, a hyphen was used for that word, so we should use it now." (That was an impression of my boss, who does things like that ALL THE TIME.)

Anyway, imagine being the one guy who doesn't give ANY SHITS, ZERO SHITS, about whether something needs a hyphen, but yet you're stuck listening to the whole hyphen talk all day.

So that guy went to make microwave popcorn yesterday, and why is it I'd never think to make microwave popcorn at home, mostly because I have no microwave, but when someone makes it at work you'd glue feathers to your hind parts or invent an interpretive dance about the Achaemenid Empire just so you can eat some of it?

Anyway, we were expecting a big storm and tornado and already had a shelter picked out and everything, so the guy who isn't a copy editor said, "Well, if this storm comes, at least I'll have died doing what I loved: shoveling popcorn in my mouth."

Then I'm sorry to tell you that the whole open floor plan discussed whether popcorn is good for you or not (sure it is. Someone said Dr. Oz said so, and you can't go wrong with Dr. Oz), but what I said is, "This would be an excellent blog topic." Guess who's probably also sick of hearing that? Is it the guy who isn't a copy editor in our row?

So that's what I wanted you to fill in the blank on, there, either about me or about yourself: She (or he, for the .0004 men who read this) died doing what (s)he loved…

Okay, go.

Blue song

Let me tell you what life is like when I'm doing one of these statistics textbooks. I get up in the morning and try to get a little of it done before work. Then I work at my actual job, and at lunch I come home and work on my statistics book. After work? I work. Now, a grownup would say, "Oh, I don't have time to go to the movies two or three nights a week on top of that" but I do.

The good news is, because I know I have to leave my house at 7:15 p.m. to see these movies with Ned, I work like a DEMON for those two hours and get a lot more done than if I had all night. If I have all night, I Butterfly McQueen the CRAP out of my work. Tra-la-laaaa. Tote the weary load…. Oh, look, I read five pages in an hour. Great.

But I have to do these books, because I owe the government $2,000. Did I tell you that? From last year when I was unemployed. Whenever I got unemployment checks they didn't take out taxes. So. Yeah.

Anyway, this book I'm working on now, and the next one that's coming right after it, will likely get that paid, and also pay back various "we're nice relatives, let us help you in your unemployment" family members.

Debt sucks.

So with all that in mind, I asked you to tell me what to write about today, and I like how someone said, "Write about what the people are like at the movie theater you go to all the time" and I answered in the comments, "I really haven't NOTICED anything about the people in the theater" and everyone else was like, "Yeah! Do that!" after I'd ALREADY SAID I had nothing to SAY about that.

When I was a kid, I'd sit on my grandmother's lap and she'd rock me and sing songs. And I'd just call out stuff for her to sing about, assuming she had a song for everything. I ASSUMED this because no matter that I called out, she'd pull a song out her ass. I was about seven before it dawned on me she was making this shit up.

"Gramma, sing a song about blue."

"….Oh, blue. …Is a color. Oh, a color. Oh, blue."

For those first six years, I was all, God, has she got a repertoire on her. That woman knows every song ever about anything. It's interesting that the Blue song and the Gray song have such similar lyrics. Must ask her about that next rock.

So that's how I felt about the theater patron request. YOU CAN'T GET BLOOD FROM A TURNIP, folks.

I will write down or print out or SOMETHING all your requests so I can address them all, but one of your requests was for how the pets are.
IMG_1820I freaking love Iris. I love the crap out of her. But speaking of crap, she has been pooping on my chair–the angry chair, for those of you who've been around awhile. She was already peeing on stuff, and now this. There's nothing physically wrong with her.

I LOVE HER. But I cannot just live this way. It's disgusting. Does anyone have any suggestions? She has a condo, which helped for a long time. She has two litter boxes. I got her a plug-in that supposedly would calm her. And? Hello poop this morning on the angry chair. Advice, please.

Tomorrow I will tell you a good story from Ned's childhood, as someone asked for that, and IT KILLS ME and he might as well poop on the angry chair, so bad was he, so stay tuned tomorrow.

Oh, blue…