June Prissys her freelance. Also, am I your secret?

I just noticed how much Edsel anticipates my every move in the morning. First he tears down the hall ahead of me to the bathroom, which by the way is the size of a closet, but yet he must stuff his yellow arse in there with me each morning. And to think there used to be TWO dogs with the stuffing and the yellow arses in that miniature Pomeranian bathroom. How we managed that I’ll never know. Continue reading June Prissys her freelance. Also, am I your secret?

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.


9:02: 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–


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.


“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.


When a broken purse is the least of your woes

Yesterday was a ridiculous day, from my series of June’s Ridiculous Days. Continue reading When a broken purse is the least of your woes

June sends loving thoughts to people who hold up the line

Last night I had a ridiculous dream. (Oh, good. Someone’s gonna describe their dream.) I dreamt I met a man and didn’t care for him at first, so when we first were introduced, I gave him my most sarcastic of smiles.

fucknatural.jpg Continue reading June sends loving thoughts to people who hold up the line

Chocolate > labs

Today, I was supposed to go to work having fasted, and have blood drawn for our health insurance thing at work. Then 40 minutes later, I was supposed to go to my new doctor and have even more blood drawn for my initial visit with him in a week, unless of course he dies or quits before then. Or I die of italicizing.

The point is, I didn’t feel like it. Continue reading Chocolate > labs

We never see Fred Flintstone getting ON the dinosaur, just sliding off at 5:00 on the dot.

What are your feelings about being on time for work? Continue reading We never see Fred Flintstone getting ON the dinosaur, just sliding off at 5:00 on the dot.

Beelzebub has a devil cat put aside for me

In case you've been on pins and also the needles re my sore throat, I seem to have rallied. Because I'm tough. But I'm fair.

Also, yesterday I started a new headache study, which I can tell you very little about, so you can ask all the goddamn questions you want, but I'm not gonna answer them, as I cannot. Not allowed. It will be for approximately 10 weeks, I think, and yesterday I had to go in there for the preliminary stuff, which included 94593939300303 questions on top of the 97,000 they already asked me over the phone.

Then? After the Qs and my vitals were taken? (STILL FAT. WHAT THE HELL.) (Says the woman who noted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts in the machine, but who had no cash other than a $5, so she went to the healthy vending machine, which takes five-dollar bills, bought something for a dollar, took the change and went to the UNhealthy vending machine, bought the Pop-Tarts and then ate both items. WHAT A MYSTERY.)

Anyway, after the Qs and my vitals, they had to do this pain threshold thing. I am not making this up. I forget the fancy term they used for it, but basically they inflicted pain on me ("How, June?" Sigh.) for AN HOUR and I had to tell them how much it hurt and so on.

I was really scared of that part. I mean, who wouldn't be? I kept picturing Wesley in the Pit of Despair (aka my head) or whatever it was called in Princess Bride, where he cries at the end.

So, I entered the room for the torture, and? It wasn't that bad.

I think I might have a high tolerance to pain. I know I don't SEEM like the type who would, but I think I do. The guy inFLICTing the pain wouldn't tell me if I had a high tolerance, but I noticed him watching me sometimes, like, seriously? Is she just, like, fine with this?

I might get this from my mother, who no matter what she has done, always says, "It didn't really hurt." She said that about CHILDBIRTH. "It didn't really hurt."

IMG_5525 IMG_5526
The place they're doing the headache study is the same place Dick Whitman works, and after I went to the coffee shop Dick Whitman always goes to, where I had a quiche (see above ref to fat) that Edsel just finished and a decaf latte, because I'm a laugh riot. What I'm saying to you is I was Dick Whitman for a day.

Dear Alexes and Everyone Else I Know Who Works in Winston-Salem: I did not know how I'd react to the torture portion of the thing, so I made no plans to get up with anyone and anyway you were all at work it was the middle of the day so get off my back.

Dear Everyone in W-S Who Still Won't Let It Drop: The rest of the study is on weeknights from 6–8, and then I have to drive all the way back to Greensboro after, so no. Let's NOT meet up after. I have a dog. A dog who never wants to go outside, but still.

Am I the least-sociable person you've never met?


The other exciting news is the receptionist gave me these flowers from her yard. She said they're all blooming early and they'll freeze this weekend, poor things, so she's bringing them in to enjoy them as much as she can.

I just heard that damn demon Steely Dan jump onto the roof. Goddammit. Hang on.

IMG_5529 IMG_5533 IMG_5534 IMG_5535
edz do not get why steelee go owtside when it perfectlee comfterbul in heer.

The good news is that if you call him, he's willing to jump right off and come inside. Be sure to ask me how he does it again. I DON'T KNOW. That cat is pure evil, y'all. But then when he's inside, he's all cuddly and on your lap and purring and acting sweet. Till he deceives you again.


Here's my tenant, fmr., forcing him into submission just the other night, when she stopped by to torture herself with interval training again. That's what they should have done at my study–just make me do interval training for an hour. Look at SD's fine expression. Soon he'll devise a way to disappear when he's being held, like Clarence when Burt the Cop had him in It's a Wonderful Life.

Speaking of old movies, last night I took my own self to my old theater, for a change, as they were showing Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. As you know (Big Book of June Events), my technique for avoiding Ned at the theater is to get there early, a thing he never does, and get a seat far from our usual seats in the balcony.

I got there at, like, quarter till last night, but Bohemian Rhapsody was playing on my radio, so I sat in my car to hear the rest of it, and as I was Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for meee, for meeeeeee!ing, I see a car pull in, and I was all, Is that…? Goddammit.

He pulled in right next to me. I still waited for my song to end, but he waited too. "I could've sung the rest of it for you. I know how it goes," said Ned. I reminded him that he's no Freddie Mercury. The good news is, Ned donated to the theater and therefore has a pass to get in, so it was Guess Who Got in For Free night for old June, here.

The event went without incident, and I love the idea that anyone could be upset that their daughter is marrying a famous elegant doctor from Yale because maybe he's more tan than you. Also, Katharine Hepburn was really very beautiful. ALSO, the maid in that movie is Weezy Jefferson. Also also, I can't THINK what that house in San Francisco would cost today. Like, at least three billion dollars.

I'd better go get ready for work, as I suddenly have an overwhelming amount to do there, and it might even interfere with me telling just everyone about the torture I endured yesterday, which I will not at all exaggerate for dramatic effect.

No one at work likes me.



Save June

Yesterday was a queer day. Did you ever see The Color Purple, when Celie says that about the weather? "It was a queer day." I always liked that line. When I was a kid, the word "queer" was all over the book Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and so one afternoon I told my babysitter she looked queer and she got furious at me. Furious! I had no idea what was so wrong.

She was this big, solid woman who took me fishing a lot, married to this mere slip of a man, and in retrospect I wonder if they had some sort of it's-the-early-'70s arrangement, and now I feel bad. I had no idea the word meant anything but out of the ordinary. I was trying to expand my vocabulary.

Anyway. I got up early yesterday so I could rush off to the doctor to get my allergy test. As I pulled up, there was this college girl in sweats and a messy ponytail, going in with her dad, and I was so over her beleaguered "Oh my gawd, it's EIGHT" attitude. Once I was at the airport and there was a college girl in the same beleaguered getup AT TEN. Give me a break. It was the Greensboro airport, so it's not like she was on a layover having flown in from London or anything.

Okay, see. I can tell already today I will be hard pressed to stick to the subject at hand.

The point is, they stuck my back with allergens, and I had to lie there for 15 minutes, waiting. "You want your phone or a magazine to look at?" the red-haired chippie asked me after she'd poked me all over yonder.

"No, I'm good," I smugged. "I can be alone with my thoughts."

So then she left and here were my thoughts for the next 15 minutes: Ned, money, Ned, what'm I gonna do about money, Ned, Edsel, Ned, wondering what you all were saying about cereal, Ned, wondering why I can't stop with the Ned bullshit and when'm I gonna get over it already, Ned [Hey, good thoughts, JUNE.] and then it was time for the doctor to come look at my back.

Turns out, I have an allergy to dust mites.

I know. Try to relax. It'll be okay.

"That's it? That's all I'm allergic to?"


"Did you test me for grapefruit?"

Nope. But they could do a blood test for that if I wanted. I demurred. At this point I'm over grapefruit. If only Ned could be grapefruit.

As soon as I got to work, I told every coworker about my severe allergies, and if you ever wanted to meet a group of people who are 100% over me, you should come see my coworkers.

Over-Me Coworker #48859

"You know how people are always saying 'I don't want your pity'? I want nothing but your pity," I told everyone. They all seemed to already know this.

As the day wore on, we decided to organize a walk, a June's Dust Mite Allergy Walk, and I'll be getting the pledge forms to you forthwith. Also, I am coming up with a ribbon for you all, an awareness ribbon, so if anyone asks you, you can say, "Oh, do you not know about June's dust mite allergy?"

My idea is, it should be dusty, and dust should fall off of the ribbon, but the "dust" would be glitter! Right? Someone get on making that. We'll be rich. I'll never have to work again, which I shouldn't anyway with this allergy.

Then at lunchtime I took old homo sapien canine to the vet.


I actually really love that photo of Eds. It captures his goof. Anyway, he's been really down, despite that smile above. He was, in fact, shaking up there while he smiled.

Smile tho' your heart is aching
Smile even tho' it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by

Anyway. He's been so squirrely lately. Like, yesterday when we got up, and were headed down the hall, and he just stopped and hung his head and wouldn't go any further. And he never, ever goes outside unless I go with him. This past weekend I was looking for him, and he was curled up in a C on the couch, like I was storming over there wielding a sledgehammer.

You could have a steam train
if you'd just lay down your tracks.
You could have an aeroplane flying
if you bring your blue sky back.

I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name.

Welcome to the inside of my head.

Anyway, thank god he acted squirrely at the vet, so I didn't seem crazy, although given my medical condition I'm sure they'd overlook it. "Might Over Mites" is my slogan, by the way. It'll be on all my t-shirts and hats and support bracelets.

But really. He turned into a letter C there, and jumped on the chair and hid behind me, and cowered and so on the whole time, so the vet is giving him Prozac, which will be good because it'll probably be extra stressful for Eds when he learns about my dust mite allergy, so.

I got to tell the vet how Tallulah died, and then we moved twice, and how he misses Ned (Edsel does. The vet doesn't miss Ned. That I know of. Maybe he and the vet just ended a torrid Brokeback Mountain affair. What do I know?) and how he ate the puppy and knows I was mad at him. So that was cheerful.

Anyway now I have to go on Good RX to find the cheapest place in town to get dog Prozac. There's a thing no one ever said in my grandmothers' day.


I took old 19th Nervous Breakdown home, and as we pulled up, I don't know what made me look in the tree, but there it was. "Is that…? Oh, son of a BITCH," I said, getting out of my car with my camera for you all. You can't tell how high up that little bastard was; I zoomed in. He was wayyyy the hell up the tree. And when he saw us, he just clambered on down. "HAI!!"

My handyman (The handyman! The handyman can!) found a vent on my house that's missing its screen, and with all my dollars Ima get a new screen so Houdini, up there, can't escape anymore.


Really, that kitten is magnificent. I mean, I really admire his brains and ingenuity and athleticism and even his dickishness. He's really quite remarkable, and he's burying Lily right now, who mostly sits around and sheds chubbily.

Finally, I talked to a bunch of places about doing freelance, because my money sucks, y'all. I'm dead broke all the time. Further reports as developments warrant.


In the evening, my tenant, former, came over to work out again, a practice that obsesses Edsel. He cannot wrap his head around why we're on the floor and not willing to make out with him the whole time. Also, you can't see, really, but behind Edsel is my coat hanging off a chair, because tidy, and the whole time he was over there Steely Dan kept reaching from under my coat to smack Eds, and he'd jump up, confused, look around and flump down again and it'd start all over.

Dis part of room pointee.

Finally, last night I decided to snack on some nutritious Fritos, and I noted I had some queso dip in the door of my fridge, from god knows when. Perhaps I purchased it during the Spanish-American war, because while I enjoyed me that dip quite a bit, about an hour later, things weren't pretty.

If I'd been a dog, I'd have been a Shih-tzu.

If I were soda, I'd have been Squirt.

If I were mustard, I'd have been Grey Poupon.

Oh, it was bad. So I went to bed early just so I wouldn't have to think about how sick I felt. Today I'm at a 7–not perfect, but I can function. Which is brave of me, considering my dust mite allergy.

That wraps up my queer day. On a queer day, you can see forever.