For you, June, are a slob

I have many topics, the fresh topics of our day, to discuss with you, and all of them are dull. Read on!

Just so I won’t forget them, because you know how I am, they are:

  • Work
  • My eyesight
  • My winter jackets
  • Turning into my grandmother, Vol. XIV

Did I not TELL you they were all dull? Let’s begin.

I read a book once, by Stephen King. Or is it Steven King? That guy who scares you. Anyway, he wrote a good book on writing, and he said one thing people love to read about is other people’s work. To which I said, hunh.

Is that true? Did you see that was one of my topics and thrill to the idea, or were you all, I’ll take Winter Jackets for $200, Alex, and by “Alex” I mean all the Alexes at June’s work?

So. Work. I’ve been at my current job for seven years, six months and 15 days. So, I guess you could surmise I must like it, and I often do. But some days? Ridic.

For the first five years, I worked on one account. Then they switched me over, and it’s like that account never existed. Once I was off of it, I was off of it. A clean break. Like the one I had with Ned.

So you can imagine my surprise at 4:59 last night when–bloop!–my computer did what it used to do two and a half years ago, which is pop up with a little assignment from this account.

“You have a task due from [fancy client you’ve heard of]!”

I do?

So I opened it. Yep. There it was, looking just as fine as it did in Two Aught 15. I realize that’s not really how you say 2015. Calm down.

Without having any idea why I was getting this, I just started, you know, copy editing it. It was like riding a bike, except I can’t ride a bike.

Then–bloop!! An email.

“Hey, Juan, here’s the task. Let me know if you have any questions.”


Let me know if I have any questions? Okay. How about, is it 2015? Did I just return from some kind of “I’m in the future” amnesia, where I thought I lived for almost three years working on other stuff? If so, did I really move? Who are my pets? I’ve no idea who Ima go home to.

When is this due?

Am I copy editing it, or are we in that six-month period where I edited instead?

Do I have any questions.

Then–BLOOP!–I get another email from another person. “Thanks for working on this!”

Who ARE you? Do you work on this account? Do we know each other? Do you even work in my company?

Then GRIFF shows up. Griff never left that account. “I hear you’re working on our stuff all day tomorrow.”

I am?

“Yeah. I won’t be here, though. Just use your common sense.”

My common–oh dear god we’re all doomed.

Finally, FINALLY, I get an email from a ninety-seventh person who asks, “Dear June, Would you have time to work on [insert account you’ve so heard of]? The regular copy editor isn’t available. It’s all due tomorrow.”

Sigh. So I guess I’m having a Flashback Friday today, working on my old account, and if Ima do this, can I go all the way and sit at my old desk, on my old floor, kibbitz with my old ridiculous boss who’d get me on tangents about Ode to Billy Jo? Cause that would be magnificent.

If you could flash back to, say, November 2015, what would you be doing?

I’m glad I did that list, above, because I’d already forgotten what else I was gonna talk about.

Yesterday was my annual eye exam, and man, was I excited to go. First of all, I can tell my eyes are most def worse, and so is my vocab. Plus also, the last time I bought glasses was in 2015, and 2015 is a big year with me today. But in that time, my prescription has DEFINITELY changed, and don’t you hate people who write “defiantly” instead of definitely? Plus also too, in those three years, since the apparently magical year of two aught 15, those glasses have been skidded across the floor by cats, ridden at the bottom of my disgusting purse, been stepped on, etc.

I take terrible care of my things.

So they’re uncomfy and twisted and scratched, and I was so excited to order new ones. I never wear my old glasses, even though they’re black cateyes with diamonds and technically I love the IDEA of them, but it feels like I have a bobcat on my face when I wear them.

You know how THAT feels.

My eye doctor is a jovial sort, and very large. I mean he’s tall and has an enormous frame. He’s just a lot of man. But I like it there because they have equipment that makes it so they don’t have to dilate my eyes, which is crueler than April, the cruelest month. April totally texts about you after you’ve gone.

“Well. You are one nearsighted young lady,” said my eye doctor, and it’s now at the point where when people say, “young lady,” they’re being ironic, like Willard Scott and his 105 years young thing.

“But your eyes are great. They’re strong, they’re clear, you’re doing great. No change.”

No…NO CHANGE? But I was CERTAIN they’ve changed. Not even close up? I can’t read the shampoo bottle close up anymore.

Nope. Same.


But you know what I did? I used my insurance money to get new glasses anyway. I tried on approximately four billion pair, till the glasses guy started tying a noose, and I decided on these sort of rosy tortoiseshells that I will show you when they get in.

I can’t wait to take terrible care of my glasses.

Coats, Soothes and Relieves
Which brings me to my winter coats. [Everyone scoots chair up, as we’re finally getting to the good part.]

Cold weather is upon us here in North Carolina, and for the first time this season, I reached for a winter jacket recently.

Almost every winter frock I own has something fucking wrong with it. Why don’t I take care of my things? So now I have a plan to fix all of the things I can fix. For example…


My leopard coat, which I believe one of you sent me, has a missing snap. Oh, snap. I am horrific today. Why?


Also, every time I got a coat out to photograph for you, ridiculous Milhous came over and posed with it. Yes, his eye IS red. He got in a fight. With a cat. He deserved it.


The fabulous orangey-red coat I got at Kit’s store is missing a little sew-y piece of thread of the cuff of one arm, so instead of turning up saucily, it droops and flops over.


Blue raincoat: Steely Dan chew mark. Also, fur.


Pink raincoat? Coffee AND lipstick stain. I don’t even know if the pink raincoat can be saved.

I should just wear black garbage bags in winter. It’d be cheaper.

Now I’m late of course but my last topic is this. You know how I’ve turned into my grandmother? When she was living alone, she had a fabulous book holder, so she could sit at her kitchen table and read and eat all at the same time, but not have to hold up her book. Yesterday at lunch I was tryina eat something healthy [Burrito Supreme] and read my book and you know what I craved? A book holder. I know the right answer should have been kale, but there it is.

But I’m having the kind of schedule lately where I’m running from one thing to another and haven’t had time to look, although of course I had time to photograph my coats. Anyway, if you find such an item, please alert me in comments so I can go get one.

Oh my god, I have to be at work in literally two minutes.


Mum-y blogger

This will surely make the more nervous of you, you know, nervouser, but I can only write you for a few minutes, as I have the jury duty and need to be downtown by 8:15, which, WHAT THE HELL, judicial system? Annoy.

There is, in fact, a sort of major trial starting today in my town, and I wonder if I will be a part of that. Please note that I did not end that sentence with a question mark, as it was not a question.

This is my latest Thing That Bugs.

“I thought you were going to Tijuana?” See, that’s a statement. You do not need that goddamn question mark. ARE you going to Tiajuana is a question. Didn’t you go to Tiajuana is also a question. But a sentence that starts with “I thought” is a statement.

“Help?” Oh my god THAT BUGS. Not a question.

Anyway, this weekend I painted the trim in the hallway, which was exciting and I got to see my cute paint store guy again. Indifferent. He was indifferent. Why is a 23-year-old black kid indifferent to an old white lady?

IMG_0651.JPGI’ve also been reading this book that one of you told me about. It’s written from the perspective of Caroline Ingalls of Little House fame, and the writer did all sorts of research to figure out what Ma was like on the INSIDE. Answer: Nicer than me.

The book store guy was all, “Oh, I loved that show.” Perhaps you will be on the jury where you don’t convict me of murder seeing as I had to snap his neck.

IMG_0670.JPGWhen I wasn’t painting or sitting around in pajamas reading…

IMG_0683 2.JPGI was at the farmers market. “Farmers,” in this case, does not get an apostrophe. I know it FEELS like it should. But they do not own the market.

IMG_0693 2.JPGI perused and eventually purchased mums, for m’front window area, and once I hung it I realized it was way too big and it looks like I’m hanging the be-fro’d head of Helen Willis from The Jeffersons out front of m’house.

Screen Shot 2017-10-02 at 7.51.49 AM.pngWhich believe it or not was not the autumnal feel I was going for.

You’d think with all their money that the Jeffersons would have sprung for a better oil painting.

Anyway, at the farmers no apostrophe market, I also played with the depth feature on my phone.

IMG_0677.JPGIMG_0681.JPGIMG_0689.JPGIMG_0674.JPGI ran into a fun person I worked with at a job two jobs ago, and the last time I ran into her was the time I went to the grocery store in a pajama top, thinking, Oh, no one will see me, and then I saw seriously 9 people during that trip. The day I have on my prom dress and a professional blowout? No one. Bupkis.

I’d better go get ready to be a part of our judicial system.

Tough but fairly,

Judicial June

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.


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.


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.


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.


My friend at work, The Poet, has a birthday on December 31. Which is sort of cool in every way, except for the part where no one cares about you on your birthday.

EXCEPT ME. I DID. But then I got my mysterious throat illness, and I was willing to still take The Poet out, but she did not want to catch my disease, nor did she want to hold me in her armchair so she could feel my disease, so we made plans to go out last night, and last night we did.

Here's me waiting for The Poet to show up. She worked later than I did, as she is on a fancy account and they work a lot.


I took her to the hotel I like to go to, the scene of my first date with Ned, but that's not important right now. It's a big building with patients, but that's not important right now. The Poet brought fortune cookies, as she'd had them from a previous festivity, that festivity being, I believe, that she'd ordered Chinese for herself, and let's get this party started.

Hers said a house without books is not a home. She read it, and then we laughed like hyenas. She is not without books. It's very booky at her abode. If the police came by, they'd say, "Book her." She's got books, is what I'm saying to you. In fact, she's got so many books that she somehow found this man from Africa, who has a name we've never heard of, like Ohu or Ohio or Mantooth, and he comes over regularly to take away the books she's gone though and decided to donate. "Omaha came by and took 300 more books with him," she'll say.

So, books. Yeah.

Mine said at the end of the day, think about what I got from a day and what I gave to it. "Well, that's just smug advice," I said, not eating my cookie. "That's not a fortune. That's a school marm."


We toyed with getting appetizers, but settled instead on the dessert plate, which contained internal organs. Mmmmmm!

Really, that photo was not flattering. It was that thing you get in New Orleans, a Bin Laden or a bidet or a Ben Wa or whatever. Then honey graham creme bruleé that Marvin would have died for, a mint chocolate cheesecake, and dark chocolate mousse.

Anyway, we weren't there long before a live band started, and if you ever want to make me happy, please play live music while I am trying to have a fucking conversation.

"WHAT?" we said, the rest of the night. And The Poet is such a loudmouth as it is. She probably went home and poeted about the whole evening. The poem will be titled, WHAT?

I as really hoping they'd play Lyin' Eyes, as you know that's The Poet's favorite. I can't hear that song without delighting in telling her I heard it, then inevitably throwing in a line from it. Because I found out early, how to open doors with just a smile.

That'd be so helpful when I have groceries.

I came home and, after several disasters, got off OK Cupid. Oh my god, I give up. Everyone I liked didn't like me, and everyone who liked me was either creepy or unemployed. One guy I talked to for days, and I kept asking about his life, and everything was nebulous.

"Why did you move here? For your job?"

"It was sort of a crisis that brought me here."


Finally, after DAYS, I was just direct. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm in a 'transition' right now," he wrote. His air quotes, not mine. "Trying to find the career that will suit me."

He's 45.

And this was not an isolated incident. Look, men of America, none of whom read my blog, do not get on dating sites if you are not equipped to be in a relationship. That means being in the middle of a life crisis, being unemployed, being under-employed, being a nutbar, etc.

So while I fumed over that, I also decided I am probably not ready to be in a relationship, either. I have to get over Ned 100%. I have to get to the point where I can run into him or god forbid hear about him (you have no idea how many people at work feel the need to tell me they saw him out and about) and it would mean nothing. Until I get to that point, I'm not good for anybody, either.


I decided all that last night while obsessing over my cats. These last two weeks have marked five years since I got Iris and soon after, Lily. The Frost sisters. Did you forget their last names are Frost? And–oh my god! Yesterday was the three-month anniversary of getting Steely Dan Silverman. Idiot savant about dates.

The point is, I'm obsessed with Steely Dan. The Poet remarked about what a beautiful cat he is, (even when he's making that face, above) and he truly is lovely.

Attitudinal. Catitudinal. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Woooo! Oh, this sure is a humor blog, June.

He's just so sweet, and so adventurous, and he purrs when you pick him up. Look. Iris will always be my f-a-v-o-r-i-t-e of my cats, because Iris is amazing, but oh, he is really da bomb. I lucked out on this Craigslist find.


I don't know why Edsel never lays his head on the dog bed.

Oh! And speaking of things I can't afford, like a bigger dog bed that he'd still hang his head off of, my Steely Dan ball is coming up this pay period and I seriously have, like, 50 dollars to spend on it. I need cheap decoration ideas (ball themed) and one, like, soup or meatball recipe or something I can make. Everyone is bringing snacks and wine as well, so.

Okay, go! You're like my personal Pinterest.



Oh, good. I get to read about someone’s trip.

I hate brunch.

There's the part where you're expected to get up, WITH NO FOOD OR COFFEE IN YOU, and head to some crowded restaurant, then wait in a lobby for a hundred minutes. Then always–ALWAYS!!–some asshole party of 10 is just before you, because hey, what's more fun than a huge GROUP going to brunch where it's already crowded.

Then you have to wait. For more coffee, for your food, for your check, and in the meantime, some asshole is singing Fire and Rain on his acoustic guitar, which is supposed to relax you and make you forget you've waited 45 minutes JUST FOR ONE CUP OF COFFEE SO FAR, when really that song is about a terrible plane crash, so relaxingness, not accomplished.

But I just figured out yesterday, as I waited 250 minutes for an egg, that another reason I hate going to brunch is how awful people look. It's so obvious they've rolled out of bed and just shuffled on in. Dear People At Brunch: Put on some goddamn pants. "Oh, these yoga pants and m'flipflops will suffice."


I'm the only person you know who could come back from the beach even crankier than before. I totally need one of those flipflop stickers for my back window, and maybe a "Beach Girl" license plate. If you ever see me with either one of those, you'll know it's time to put me in the home. My ex-mother-in-law used to say that about if we ever saw her out in a sweatsuit.

You know what my ex-MIL would never do? Wear yoga pants to brunch.

Despite that, I did have fun. It was like the perfect vacation. The weather was divine, and I just said "divine." The little place I stayed was perfect, and mercifully empty till this asshole couple arrived on Saturday and decided blaring their music and opening their back doors right next to me was a marvelous idea. They also made out in their bathing suits on the back porch. Our shared back porch. I went outside and pretended they weren't there and read a book. Like the jerk of an old lady that I am.

One of the songs they were blaring was, I'm sad to tell you, I've Had The Time of My Life. You know, from Dirty Dancing? She had some kind of extended dance remix of it, and who knew there was such a thing. When this jerk of a young chippie wasn't carrying a glass–A GLASS–of mimosa to the beach and making out with her boyfriend, whom she continually called, "Baby," she was jamming out to that song. She was singing along. I was reading my book just to irk her back there, and I was all, "Bitch, I was out here in the world hating this song before you were a zygote."

Anyway, they were only there the last full day, as I said, and they left midafternoon and I didn't hear from them again till Sunday morning, which is what drove me to get eggs in public.

Other than that, it really was the perfect vacation.

Here's my hair on day one.

Later on day one.

Day two, then below, days four and five. On day three, I went to town and had civilized hair. If anyone says, "Beach hair don't care," Ima personally drive to your house and make you wait tables at brunch.

IMG_3116 IMG_3111

I sat in the giant chair at my rental house and looked at the water and obsessed over the bunnies who could not have hated me more,


I had a dark-chocolate s'more (not a euphemism), and watched sunsets. I was on a point, so I could see water all around me.


I saw three shooting stars on various nights, and oh! I saw a dead jellyfish!

That poor jellyfish. The water was his jam.

I also went to Wilmington, which is right next to the beach I stayed at. Whenever you say you're going to the beach, people here are all, "Oh, what beach?" and then you tell them and I have no idea what they're thinking about you as a result. Do they think that's a tacky beach? That you sound rich cause you picked that beach? I have no idea. So far since I've lived here I've gone to the Outer Banks, and Carolina Beach, and Wrightsville Beach and Virginia Beach and I forget the others and they all look the same to me anyway, water and sand, which also by the way pisses people off. I guess it's like asking what church you go to. It tells a lot about a person.

Anyway, I went to Wilmington for the day, and saw people Halloween-ing, and saw many dogs, and went to a coffee shop and to the book store and bought jewelry I didn't need as opposed to all the people in the world who go without jewelry every single day, and that's the real tragedy we should be addressing in these times.


Maybe this was a funeral procession for that jellyfish. You can't know, really.


In a coffee shop window. There are two types of people in the world: People who love to sit in the window of the coffee shop, and people who never would. Guess which type I am.


Bookstore sitting. I found an '80s Judith Krantz novel I read back when I had a perm, and I didn't buy it but now I wish I had, just to relive the terrible. It was called I'll Take Manhattan. The heroine was rich and beautiful and spirited. It really pisses me off when rich beautiful people think it's daring to be spirited. "Oh, I'm Prince Harry. Look at me rebel! With my bodyguards and my lifelong career as a royal!"

Anyway. You know what my dream is? To own a bookstore and have a bookstore cat. There's just the part where I'd have to know business things like maths and also I hate people. Oooo, I could have a brunch-and-books store. 


IMG_3142 IMG_3057
Anyway, it was a good trip, and now I'm home sharing my toast with Edsel, and with each crust, he leaps in the air after it and a squeak of Eds gas comes along with it, which is probably god's way of telling me that Edsel should not be leaping after my toast crust, and what's sad is god speaks to me in dog gas.

This is the word of the Lord. <squeeeeeak>

Thanks be to God.

Oh, and happy Halloween! Boo! My coworkers are all going dressed as Griff this year, which is hilarious, but I was out of town and unable to fashion an ensemble, so I guess I'll just watch from afar this year.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, when I will have far fewer selfies, a thing that I'm sure makes you sad. Talk to you in November. Today's assignment is that we all must rush out and rent Sweet November. The old version with that namby-pamby pale actress. Then we can all get annoyed at how dying just means you nap a lot.

Edsel gas in red font-ly,


835 Glorious Words


This is my favorite time of year, because, for example, this is the view out my kitchen window. Every hour I spend dicing and sauteing, I see this. I also have a view of this:

I accidentally typed "dicking" instead of "dicing," which is more like it. Although I never do that anymore, either.

Speaking of which, last night I was walking Edsel.


I took this by accident, but I love it. I was really meaning to film The Watching of the Chickens.


Although right then it was the Ignoring of the Chickens. You know, once Tallulah got sick and I learned it was terminal, I was getting her Gentle Leader on her that same night and I said, "You know what, Talu? Never again." And I put a leash on her like she was a normal dog, nothin' on her snout, and SHE WALKED JUST FINE. She didn't pull me like I was miming dog-walking. Edsel, however, would not be fine. He pulls even with the Gentle Leader. Remember when I took them both in for harnesses? Good gravy.

Anyway. We were at the park walking in the grassy knoll part, and I always call it a grassy knoll in my mind and I often think of the photo I took of my grandmother, at the part of Dallas where Kennedy was shot, where she's pointing to the grassy knoll dramatically, like the old pictures. Now I want to dig that photo up and this is why I'm always late for work.

ANYWAY. My phone rang, and it was Ned. "Are you walking the dog?" he asked, because he knows my moves. I assured him I was. "I'm near your house, can I stop by?" Ned had a stress test last week, because what stress, and he'd had chest pains because did I mention what stress? He's the fancy president of his company, and do you know what I would never like to be? Is a president of a company.

The point is, he was running on the treadmill and that all went fine, except he pulled a calf muscle really bad and I'm sorry that I think that's hilarious. So now he's STILL GOING TO THE GYM, but not doing anything on his bottom half. This means he was done with the gym spectacularly early, like 7:00!!, and wanted to pop over. HE STILL HADN'T EATEN, of course, and Ned's whole evening schedule has always irritated the crap out of me. I hate to inform you that I freaking love living alone. I really do.

Anyway, we were still in the grassy knoll when I saw his car pull up, and we ended up meeting on the bridge of the park, and when Edsel saw Ned he broke into an ecstatic run, and the whole point is, Ned brought me two bouquets of purple tulips. I hugged him and Edsel wrapped his leash Ned and me twice, like a lasso.

"I'm sorry you had a weepy weekend," he said, handing me the flowers. And no he's NOT trying to get into my size 10 pants and my very big bra. Would that he were. Ned won't just bang people willy-nilly. He has to be all stable and in a relationship with a person, and what a pussy.


But he did come have a drink at my house. He had a beer. I had water. I was out of points for the day.

I just noticed that I'm typing this whole thing with a cat asleep on my arm. I hadn't even noticed. It's incredibly uncomfortable, and why the carpal tunnel, June?

I guess that's all I have to tell you, other than my job changed a few weeks ago, and I think I told you that, but as a result, I'm now someone who has to go to meetings all the time. I'm forever leaping up to go to meetings. The woman who sits next to me told me at the beginning of the day, she looks in her calendar to see what meetings are ahead of her, rather than just letting the meeting alert thing stun her with the info 15 minutes prior. She says that way she's "prepared" for the meeting.


She's like 27.

Oh, also. I will be intentionally vague about this, because I'd hate for anyone to feel bad. But a coworker found a horrific book that has never been published, and when he opened it in the middle of the book the first thing he read was a love scene, that said, "For five glorious minutes…" Oh, then it was on. We BEGGED him to bring the book in, and every day we have something we call Five Glorious Minutes, where we read the book aloud. It's so fantastically awful that we can't get enough of it. Five glorious minutes are never enough. It's so bad that it really should be published. Maybe I'll sell copies of Five Glorious Minutes. Can I get sued for that? Yeah. Probably.

Crap. It's 8:31.



The one where it snows in North Carolina. EVERYBODY PANIC!

Dis offend Edzul dellikit sensibilitys.

We had something of a storm. It's not so much how many inches we got, which is the story of MY life, but rather that after it snowed, it then hailed, hailed, the gang was all here, and sleeted, and generally the weather was a dick. We didn't have work yesterday, but I still had to work. They'd told us all to take home our laptops "just in case." Then we got the email that the office was closed, followed by an email from the head of our department, who said, "Stay in your pajamas all day, but keep IM open just in case."

There were a lot of "just in cases" going on in my life yesterday. I got all that info before 8 a.m., and kept the phone with me and decided to rest my eyes just a bit longer. And what woke me up was damn Bitchy Resting Face Alex emailing me some work.

What a jerk.

She'd asked me earlier in the week if I could look at her deck. A deck is a presentation, but we never ever call anything by what it is at work, and you spend the first year there wondering what an MCOW is or a POD. Anyway, all week she was updating me on the condition of her deck, and you can imagine the appropriate responses I sent back.

"Your deck sounds really hard."

"Can't wait to see your deck. Can you send a deck pic?"

But her deck kept not being ready, despite the pills. She was a real deck tease. Finally, of course, when I'm supposed to be drinking spiked hot chocolate (step one: get hot chocolate) (step two: get spikes) IN MY PAJAMAS BECAUSE MY BOSS SAID, instead I spent all afternoon on that damn laptop studying BRF Alex's damn deck.

The BEST part, the VERY BEST PART, is when I was almost done and Iris sat on the laptop and erased everything and I had to start over. I AM NOT KIDDING YOU. Iris is a total deck block.

Anyway, through all that it snowed. Then tinkled icily. All day. Sometimes it was really loud and clanky and disturbing.

Iris considers.

Iris decides.


I went outside in my pajamas, because my boss said, and crunched around in it for awhile, refilled the bird feeder, checked if it was good packing. It isn't.


I guess a sensible person would have put those chairs up so they wouldn't get snowed on.

Tallulah isn't really eating that much, which worries me, and she's shaking, which similarly worries me, and it dawns on me if she gets really ill, we're stuck here. I tried to leave the house yesterday just to see if I could, with a whole, "Pfft, I'm from Michigan" thing going on, and I got stuck in my own driveway, which is a metaphor for everything in my life.


She keeps going outside and squatting, often to no avail, and the silver lining is with the snow, at least I can tell when she's successful. The most heartbreaking thing was watching her squat while ice pellets fell on her. I wanted to go out there with an umbrella, like she was P Diddy, and she's Pee Didn't right now, but I knew that would just freak her out and she'd walk away from me.

I guess a sensible person would have brought in that water dish before it became a snow bowl.

Oh my poor Lu. Can't wait for the advice on this. I called the vet, but of course they're closed. So.

So that's the news over here. It's snowing, but I've got a good book (Purity, which I borrowed from Ned and hey, healthy boundaries) and I have a new paint-by-numbers to do because artist, and also my dog to obsess about. I'm all set! You should have heard my mother the night before the storm. "Have you got cat food? Dog food? Litter? Food for you?"

"Pam, I'm 50," I told her.

"That's not seemed to matter so far," she said, and remember when Dorothy used to threaten Sophia with Shady Pines?



Indian June

Yesterday was very international. We had a lunch made for us by the Spanish team that was delicious. Then last night, Fleeta and I went to the free fitness thing downtown, where they had Masala Bhangra. I'd never heard of it, either, and dearly wished for Indian food once they said it, as well. We're on the same page.

Anyway, they played music like this, and it was all Indian Bollywood-style stuff, and oh my god, that was fun.


You know I've been doing Tracy Chapman like a manwoman ever since the universe said I had cankles, but this made me sore anyway.

Speaking of which, I totally caught two of my coworkers making fun of my cankle debaucle behind my back. I saw it completely by accident, but you never know who isn't your real friend, man. I didn't say a word, but I tucked it away. It's been duly noted.

Fleeta, who I heart, was an excellent person to go to anything like a bizarre Indian-dancing class, by the way. She was totally into it, as she is most things. The real classes are in Winston-Salem, where all the fun is.

IMG_4004Oh, I didn't mean to put in this picture of Ned seeing God, or perhaps the baseball game behind us at dinner the other night. I have to shrink the photos down to nothing before I can put them on here, because Typepad. So now I can't see then at all when I select them to upload.

IMG_4005Here we go. My cankles and I headed to the Chinese restaurant after, because what complements a good workout better than Chinese? I called Ned from there. "I'm getting Chinese food. I'm calling to see if you want any."

Ned paused. I knew he'd be appalled. "Chinese food is very bad for you, June," he said. "Get me some Szechuan chicken and an egg roll." I love it when Ned is bad.

We ate outside, where I'd been reading Candace Bergen's memoir. "What would you title your memoir?" Ned asked me.

"The Sun Also Annoys Me. You?"

"I don't know. Maybe just Fuck You." Which would be a hilarious title. But I mentioned it should REALLY be I Got Your Memoir, Right Here, because Ned has always got my whatever right there on a constant basis. "I got your banana, right here."

Whatever with Ned.

I have to go, but what would your memoir be? Tell all.

What in the world

Your suggestions are rolling in, not literally because how could a suggestion literally roll in, of which posts I should put in a book. They've ranged from you sending 20 from one month (Slutty Pancakes) to just one or two. This is great! Now I have to go read them and be all judge-y about my own self. Which, who can't do that?

Anyway, thank you.

I just heard Ned in there saying, "What in the world?" which is a response he usually reserves for when he looks over and I'm all of a sudden crying. You know how that is. You're going along with your day and you read about Jack the dog dying in By the Shores of Silver Lake. Or all of a sudden something reminds you of your dead cat Roger. To use very loose, unspecific examples. Any time he says it, I always laugh a little on my insides, even though I'm crying on the outside.

I guess Ned isn't one to just spontaneously burst into tears 50 times a day like my Aunt Kathy or, you know, me, so he always expresses surprise when I do it. "What in the world?" like he's 87 years old.

This time it was because his phone screen was all of a sudden dim. I guess his phone dimming and me bursting into racking sobs are on the same par, in the world of Ned.

Speaking of par, here are some boys at work, most of whom golf, see, and that's what reminded me of this moment I captured on film. So beautifully.

IMG_3056Here they all are, discussing Cormac McCarthy. Ned is obsessed with Cormac McCarthy, so I texted him (text him) this picture. "Look. People discussing Cormac McCarthy. All boys," I noted. Cormac McCarthy writes boy books. I have no interest in his boy books. None of these boys or Cormac McCarthy would be interested in my stupid girl blog, either. The men above only read my blog if they're in it. Hello, Guy Who Sits Next to Me, Griff, my boss, and the beleaguered editor who had to sit on copy editor's row for awhile.

Hello, Cormac McCarthy. He's all, "I'm in June's BLOG today!?!" Calling his friends.

"Ooo, which book were they talking about?" asked Ned, to which I replied, "?" and also, "hooo care?"

Probably they were discussing that one boy time where boy things happened in that one Cormac McCarthy book about boy things.

"Oh, shoot," I just heard Ned say now. "God, that's…"

Turns out a cat pooped right outside the litterbox this time. What in the world? He and I both blame NedKitty, who will do that very occasionally to express her displeasure at things. She abhors all talk of Cormac McCarthy. So, we've mulled it over, and we're getting rid of her.

Pound. Or maybe just a nice drive to the country.

IMG_3061Also, one of the Alexes at work did yoga yesterday, you know, right behind my desk. Say, open floor plan. Thanks for the increased productivity.

Oh! And I have forgotten to tell you this eight thousand days in a row. Did you read my Purple Clover article not this week but last week? About the bad art from my childhood? One thing I mentioned was that we had a painting of a red clown who'd stare dolefully at me while I waited for dinner to be ready. I really remember that, too, just sitting in the living room like some sort of queen, with All Things Considered on the radio–a show that still makes me want to kill myself–starting at the horrid red clown and waiting a trifle impatiently for dinner to be brought out. I couldn't have sliced a carrot or anything?

The point is, my mother got rid of that red clown long ago, or maybe she was even lucky enough to have ditched that thing during the divorce, but of all the coincidences, just last weekend she was at an estate sale and…


My mother said that even while my stepfather got out his phone to photograph this, people walking by said, "Oooo, that's creepy."


Believe it or not, someone bought it. I tried to find more horrifying pictures by this artist who made me the insane person I am today, but is his name Richier or Richter? Can you tell? And why does he haunt my dreams so? Why the twitch? What in the world?

Oh my land (what in the WORLD?) I gotta go. I got a Curly Girl haircut last night and I think Ima try to not wash it today, so that will save time. Just a little lavender water and gel. What say you, can I get away with that?

Photo on 3-18-15 at 8.09 AMI feel like I have to tell everyone, and I do, "This is not a blemish on my chin. It's a cat scratch from a dick cat."

Pound. Drive to the country.

Iris will get there and be all, wat the world?"

June, and Cormac McCarthy, out.