June decides to blame it on the boogie

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This is the best picture I could get of Tallulah enjoying her a burrito last night. It's hard to feed your dog a burrito and take a photo at the same time. Need to go on Amazon and order the Indian goddess arms.

So, I know I wrote briefly yesterday, but what happened was yesterday morning I took Tallulah to the vet for her ultrasound. Hey, did I mention how everyone needs to email me personally with advice re this? On the way there, I kept petting her head and hugging her, which I'm sure was safe, but she was cold and nervous and was shivering so hard her dog teeth were chattering. Poor Lu.

Just as we neared the damn vet, Landslide came on. The good version, not the one where the Dixie Chicks fuck up the lyrics. Dear Dixie Chicks, singing, "even children get old" ruins the meaning of that line, you fucking idiots.

I edit our newsletter at work, and this month I did a roundup of all the employees asking, Which musicians have influenced you? I asked it right after David Bowie died. Anyway, lots of people responded and because EVERY MONTH my coworker Griff adores telling me about an error we missed in said newsletter, I have of late been asking him to take a gander at it before it goes to print.

"Hey, June, you wanna know what you missed? Hey, June." Oh my god, every month he does that.

Anyway, he's really good at catching errors and being a dick, so it's been great. This month he kept coming over to me. "June. Hey, June, this guy's wrong about this band he likes."

"Griff, we can't fix people's opinions. Could you just look for spelling and grammar mistakes? If I gave someone the wrong job title?"

Griff has been an editor for 20 years.

"Hey. June. We can't let this guy say this. He's completely wrong. This band was not the quintessential…"

"GRIFF. GRAMMAR. SPELLING."

Awhile back, I told Griff about this asshole who'd written me on OK Cupid to say, "While a lot of men would be turned off by your profile, I found it wonderful."

Wow, thanks, backhand.

"What's your profile like?" asked Griff. "Is it really, like, bossy and masculine?"

Yeah.

Oh my god anyway. So Landslide came on, and it made me sad, although I have to say so far I haven't cried about all this because nothing's official and also Lexapro.

 

I feel like Lindsay Buckingham is a whiny little bitch. Also, that hairdo has to go. Art Garfunkel called.

Talu went cheerfully with the vet tech, since they're all starting to go way back, as often as we're in there. Lu's all, "hey, sheeela, how's the fammlee?" I tried not to feel tragic while I drove to work, but the truth is, I do. I took my phone with me everywhere yesterday, and when the vet called, what she told me was while everything else looks good, Tallulah has a thickening in the trigone part of her bladder, which is where bladder cancer starts.

It still COULD BE a really bad UTI, she told me. It still could be. We're gonna look again when she finishes her antibiotics.

But after we talked, I googled, of course, and bladder cancer rates are high in Beagles, which she is along with evil Pit. Also, man, she's been on these last-chance antibiotics twice a day since Monday. And she still can't pee. Plus, I did not find one thing on Google where someone was all, My dog had thickening in the trigone and it turned out marvelous. Not one.

What I'm saying is, people who're dismissing this to make me feel better aren't helping. I know I can be, you know, dark about health things, but I've pretty much known in my heart of hearts that something's really wrong since that Saturday she walked up to me, shaking.

Maybe my heart of hearts is wrong because I'm me. Maybe. But what helps is not telling me I'm wrong and she'll be fine. I don't think she will.

If she does have bladder cancer, which by the way COMES FROM GODDAMN FLEA MEDICINE, and can I sue someone? If she does, it's not curable. And I won't put my dog through all kinds of shit just so I can have her longer. She's a dog. She won't know why she feels like crap.

So, we wait for her antibiotic to be done. When that's done, I have to follow her around the yard like an idiot trying to catch her urine. "Oh, my vet told me to just do it with a ladle," said my Aunt Kathy. "Just get one of your ladles…"

One of my ladles.

After Lu's celebratory burrito last night, she and I drove to the store and got water buffalo hooves, I am not making that up, for her and for Edsel. Edsel, who may have to rise to the challenge of being only dog in this house when he's spent his whole life being a Pip, and god help us, everyone.

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Every morning now, after breakfast, these two meet on this chair for their Needy Committee huddle. That chair needs recovering so bad. Those two need Pip recovery so bad.

ANYWAY, after I did all that last night, I headed to The Other Copy Editor's house, as she had invited me before all hell broke loose. TinaDoris was there, too.

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I'm hoping my sweater is just unflattering, because when did I become everyone's wide friend? Anyway, we literally had girl talk. Vaginas, breast feeding, menopause, breasts, catty talk about other women, hair. Then The OCE's husband came down and we had to curtail all that. Talked about sex after that. Which is how it always goes with TOCE's husband.

Okay, I gotta go. I've committed myself to three sets of plans tonight, as I am wont to do and who needs a calendar, a Hallmark datebook, which is what I picture when I say that, and hey, 19. I feel like I will bail on all three. Am reading Mr. Write's book and want to finish it. Is it wrong to tell someone you can't go out with him because you want to finish his book? Really, I do just want to stay here and stare at my dog.

Oy.

Bladderly,

June

If you liked it than you shoulda put a…oh, put this.

Today is my department's annual ugly sweater and breakfast, and I am cooking sausage biscuits. And by "cooking sausage biscuits," I mean I'm throwing some frozen sausage biscuits in the oven in 10 minutes. I had originally signed up to bring "attitude and fruit," but once I got to the store last night, the fruit looked depressed. The fruit needs Cymbalta.

At least I'm still bringing the attitude.

One guy signed up to bring Texas Pete. Like, he's bringing a bottle of Texas Pete. Maybe 24-year-old boys should not be allowed to participate in the work Christmas potluck. Then again, maybe 50-year-olds should do more than throw frozen sandwiches in the oven for 10 minutes. Hey, I have to wrap EACH ONE in foil. Exhausting.

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As for what Ima wear, two years ago this very lovely woman at work loaned me her nice Christmas mock turtleneck and sweater vest. She loaned a similar one to The Other Copy Editor, who doesn't even work there anymore, so we would be a matching set. I am assuming The Other Copy Editor returned that nice outfit forthwith. What I did was keep that ensemble in a drawer till October of the following year, when I moved it to the house I lived in with Ned. Then I moved it BACK here to this house, and then I had the nerve to ask her if I could wear it this year and return it after.

I'd have punched me right in the cock.

That's TOCE and me, up there above, with our proofreader gang sign we made up. It's a caret. Proofreader humor is the best kind of humor.

Oh my god, anyway.

Other than that, I've been reading my statistics textbook at night, and I know you envy my pre-holiday excitement. I also keep meaning to do a whole photo montage on Facebook, with "Christmas 2015" as the title, and then just room after room of my completely not decorated house. Fuck it. I'm not in the MOOD to decorate. I think we should all be lucky I don't impale myself with a wise man.

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There. I just put it back on. This means I'm not wearing a dress today, but maybe I'll come home at lunch and change so I am still Dresscembering. Jesus, with my many activities. It's never-ending. Dresses, statistics, ugly sweater parties, impaling self with myrrh. Hey, you wanna drive yourself berserk? Try spelling myrrh. One year I should insist my family get me nothin' but myrrh.

…I just cut my goddamn finger on the tin foil serrated edge thing. Goddammit. Fortunately I was able to put a little myrrh on it. Good as new. If you liked it then you shoulda put some myrrh on it.

Now I just gotta wait for my biscuits to cook, and how often do you hear me say THAT? You must be sick of it already. I finally got my baking sheets back from Ned's house; I'd left three of them there, plus a muffin tin, because you know how famous I am for my muffins. So to speak.

I hope somebody else makes something actually good. Did I already tell you this, that Bitchy Resting Face Alex said when she attends a potluck, her goal is to make the thing that everyone goes, "Wow! Who made THAT?" I'm like, really? That never occurred to me to think, ever.

…Okay, they're ready. Edsel let me know, by getting up on his stupid hind legs, that if I wanted help ingesting these, he's here for me. I gotta drive to work with sausage biscuits.

It's the most stupidest time of the year.