Days I can’t complain about

I just sat down to blog at you, and sometimes when I have no pressing news, I look at my recent photos to jar my memory of what’s been going on. Not in a Marvin Gaye way.

We have two new guys at work who hail from Vegas. I mean, they don’t bring icy pellets with them wherever they go. You know what I mean. Anyway, we act like they’ve never lived on the planet before, so…introduce-y are we to The Way of North Carolina’s People.

“Have you guys ever tried honeysuckle?” we asked them the other day, on our 3 o’clock walk.

We showed them how you pull the stamen out and eat the little drip of honey at the bottom.

“I guess that’s why they call it honeysuckle,” said one of the newborn Las Vegas guys, who probably hasn’t seen any of the world or anything in Las Vegas. We also gave them a riveting discourse on humidity.

Here’s the best part: It had never occurred to a single one of us that “honeysuckle” was the same as “you suckle the honey.”

Well, golll-eee.

When I got home from work that night, I did the thing where you remain in your car for a moment. I forget why. Something good on the radio (but not NPR, as NPR makes me want to kill own self), something I wanted to answer on my phone. I don’t know. The point is, why do I always forget that this is going to happen?

FLUMP

He can’t wait EIGHT SECONDS for me to emerge from the car.

I’LL BE RIGHT OUT, GOD.

wat doooooeng mom

Then when I did finally go inside, I had all this. LOOKIT THE BABY.

There are also two OTHER new guys at work, and they sit in an office right across from me. That area was originally an “ideation” space, my favorite word, and it was also the space I made doctor’s appointments in, because hello open floor plan. It also served as a milk-pump room for women at work because hello open floor plan.

However, the two guys who moved in there are pretty great, and in fact I KNOW them from another ad agency I worked at.

The agency we came from didn’t just have coffee. It had three different coffee bars, with fresh beans, and from what I hear, there’s a full-time barista there now.

My work doesn’t provide coffee, just a Keurig pot and you bring your own pods, and they were surprised at that.

“I have my own Hello Kitty coffeemaker at my desk,” I said, “but I never bring real coffee.”

One of the guys whipped out a baggie.

“Let’s do this bitch.”

The best part was watching this 8-foot-tall bearded viking carrying my Hello Kitty coffeemaker from the kitchen to my desk.

So we had real coffee at 4 p.m. yesterday, and I slept anyway last night because addict. I just drink coffee now to keep from feeling sick.

When I got home last night, I had a package. About a week ago, my pal in real life, Marty Martin, put an article on Facebook about jewelry called Fordite, or Detroit Agate. For years, people painted cars by hand, at Michigan factories, and the cement underneath it had swirls of the various car paints baked into them. Someone got the idea to make that concrete into jewelry.

When I was growing up, everyone worked at the factory making cars. Everyone. Not my parents, although they both worked at the factories for like a week apiece at some point in their youth.

But my grandparents did. And everyone’s dad did that I went to school with.

When I saw that Detroit agate was a thing, I had to have some. Got this on Etsy–just look it up there and there are plenty of choices. It was hard to photograph up close but all the colors have a little bit of sparkle to them. There are reds, blues, silvers, creams. Ooooo, I loves it. It’s the jewelry of my people.

Also last night, a woman came over to look at Runty and decided she might take the mom cat, Cora, instead. Cora is rather charming, and I’m not worried about people adopting the kittens, because they will.

I take them all in to the shelter tomorrow after my wedding, for their shots and a checkup. I think they will probably take the mom and all the orange boys, who all weigh nearly two pounds now, and give me back the girls for continued fattening–or at least Runty, who weighs only one kitty pound. And if I were gonna keep anyone

WHICH I AM NOT

I would keep Runty, and to give her back to me is a little squealy and I must not love Runty.

yuuu alreddy love me, bitz

I went in to say goodnight to the kittens last night, and three of them were up in the closet. They love that closet in there. They better not ruin my ’60s romance magazines I hid in there when I was thinking of showing my house.

I better go. Tonight is a happy hour for a woman at work who’s leaving, but I really want to be sure to be in good shape for my wedding, so I don’t know if I’ll go. I tend to go to those things saying I’ll just stay for one and being the last person to Uber home at 2 a.m.

Actually, I’ve never done that, but does anyone recall the Whiskey Sour Extravaganza of 2018? ‘Twasn’t pretty.

Or how about the Ned Had to Get Me That One Night Extravaganza of 2016?

So.

I’ll talk to you all soon. My wedding day involves not just my royal wedding, but that trip to the vet, and also m’Botox and then a party and a baseball game. I know. I’m only going to the baseball game because they are giving away free Prince Harry bobbleheads. You know your ass’d go to that sporting event, too.

The point is, you might not hear from me that day, but fret not. We will discuss the wedding, my wedding, ad nauseum.

Royally
Juub

Hair-ried

I forgot to mention to you that the day Steely Dan was clearly hurt, with the growling when he walked and his big eyes and so on? I called the vet right away, like at 7:30 in the morning, and they said, “Can you have him here by 8:00?” So I took the world’s fastest shower and put on the world’s fastest stupid ensemble and then I scream scream screamed to the vet and went to work and looked like this:

Wow. I don’t know anyone whose hair reflects her every mood the way mine does. This one says, “Harried.” Hair-ried.

But while we’re on the subject of my stupid life, usually when I write you, I’m in my robe, and I will give you a moment to stop being so turned on.

But today, after I showered

[I’ll give you another moment. You must be on fire at this point.]

I thought, You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna get dressed right away, because that robe is always kind of warm and my bosoms are always in the way

[At this point there’s nothing you can do. You are going to spend the whole day in a heightened state of arousal.]

so why not get dressed now?

So I did, and then I made my avocado toast and bit into it and squirted grape tomato all over my outfit.

And right then I knew, that’s why I fucking wear my robe when I write you. I have to wait till the very last minute to dress, to alleviate the many things that can go wrong with my clothing. The cat hair, the tomato seeds, the toothpaste.

Goddammit.

It’s a good thing I pilled Steely Dan before I showered and dressed, as that was another thing that could have landed on my clothes. I know I told you he takes pills nicely, and compared to my other cats, he still does, but perhaps he’s feeling better or just wasn’t in the mood, because he

SPAT

his pill across the kitchen floor.

I didn’t even know cats could spit. He was like a gray angry llama up in here. Just ptooi across the floor with that pill. But I gathered it up and gave it to him and he was all, FINE and took it without incident.

The fact that he is currently an indoor cat makes me feel better about finding this last night…

My friend Lucy, from TinyTown, gave me this right when I moved into this house, and it’s been in my backyard ever since, and it’s been used ever since. Now, I know Iris isn’t strong enough to, you know, RIP a birdhouse open, and probably SD isn’t, either, but since he was inside (and so was Iris, actually), I know I don’t have to blame my own self for this horrific scene.

I didn’t see feathers or eggs or anything, so maybe whatever animal did this was out of luck. There WAS a nest in there, but that coulda been from last year.

So that was dramatic, and also dramatic yesterday was when an electrician came over. I had a smoke detector hanging from my ceiling by its wires, like I decorated using tips from Crack House Monthly. Like I decorated using pins from Needle-trist. And anyway, Alf my ridiculous handyman said it was going to require an actual electrician to fix it, so I got one to just replace all my smoke detectors, because every single one of them is wired into my ceiling and was either (a) missing because I ripped it down or (2) had a door that was stuck open because they were all old and stupid.

So yesterday at lunchtime, the electrician came over and replaced all 6 smoke alarms, and when the new ones went in they would beep a few times to let us all know they may be new but they’re still annoying. And as he did that I was tryina stay out of his way and I saw this.

Poor Eds was in the bathroom, being a letter C. A few minutes later, I walked past again and the electrician was standing over Eds, rubbing his dog chest. I dearly wanted to say, “May I photograph this moment for my blog?” but YOU try that and see how insane that makes you feel.

But speaking of Edsel, he did get rewarded for his terror last night when Aunt Alex came over. Oh, he was mad when her truck pulled up. He was all making a letter O with his mouth and raising his hackles and carrying on, and Steely Dan, who wants nothing to do with any of us at this point and feels like Pa Ingalls did when he was snowed in for months with his stupid family, glared and hoped the person in the truck was an ax murderer and we’d all be removed from this mortal coil.

But it wasn’t an ax murderer. It be Aunt Alex. Note SD in the corner, with his Paw Wash of Disappointment.

“Steely Dan’s inside!” she exclaimed ‘ere he stomped out of sight.

“Apparently you’re not reading my blog,” I said, and it’s always a weird thing when you write about your life every day and then you have friends in real life and you don’t wanna be RUDE and be all, “Do you read my blog?” but you also don’t want to launch into a story they just fekking READ about and then they have to feign interest and it’s really become a thing, basically.

Other than relatives such as my parents, the people who know me in real life don’t read me. It’s probably enough to know All This in real life without having to read All This.

“No, I–I read. I know he got hurt, but then what happened?”

See. She saw it in Facebook, is what she did. It really is a thing, this blogging and having friends. It’s an awkward thing. Maybe I should just go ahead and tell all my stories, and they can interrupt me with, “Yeah, I read this already, bitch,” but who’s gonna do that? Emily Post has never addressed this situation.

Aunt Alex was over to have dinner with me, as I have not seen her in awhile because we don’t work together anymore and she no longer lives a mile away. She and her spouse, who is also good-looking, moved to the country so they can impress the animals with their golden blondeness. They’re like Adam and Summer’s Eve.

And why do all my younger friends get to move to the country and eat a lotta peaches while I’m stuck in the bustling metropolis that is Greensboro? Why I gotta be all urban? I’m dying to live in the (snake-free) country.

They should make snake-free country the way they got the seeds outta grapes. I mean, someone figured that out, and that couldn’t have been easy. Work on it, smart folk.

Oh my god, anyway. The point is, we went to dinner at this little diner that’s been around since 1977 and since they last decorated in 1977. I want it to NEVER CHANGE. I adore it there.

I had quiche, because 1977, and she had a prosciutto and swiss sandwich, and we had a lovely time and talked and laughed and then she took me home and as I walked into my living room, I saw her pull back into my drive.

I went outside.

She got out of her truck. She stared at me, aghast.

“We didn’t pay.”

OH MY GOD WE DIDN’T PAY! We just clean forgot! We just STROLLED out of there without going up to the counter!

Alex went back, and she texted me after. “They weren’t even fazed,” she said.

We totally coulda gotten away with it.

I gotta go, but I wanted to tell you about a lovely experience I had last night. I mean, beyond dining and dashing.

Here’s one of my Amazon links to a CD. Back in the year 2000, which feels like five years ago but was EIGHTEEN, I trained for and ran a marathon. I also had a very fruity therapist, whom I loved, who changed her name from a nice Jewish lady therapist’s name (think something like Myra Goldblum) to something Indian-ish, because she was super duper into meditation and so on, and during some sort of seminar she was given a new name. So she went from Myra Goldblum to Sanguine.

I loved her. She lived in my neighborhood, so I’d walk over to her house once a week and get therapied. She got me to get a Ganesh keychain, and so on. The point is, she loaned me the above CD, there, called Sound Body, Sound Mind, by Dr. Andrew Weil. It’s five minutes of him talking, then an hour or so of really pretty music.

What happens is allegedly while you listen to it, your body heals itself from whatever’s wrong.

I was to take her CD and tape it, and dear Dr. Andrew Weil, don’t arrest me.

So Marvin made me that tape, and he inscribed it, Sound Body, Sound Mind CD from Gurpmaloni Changetrimeshu.

I used that tape like a motherfucker while I was doing my marathon training, because something always hurt on me, and I would giggle

LIKE AN IDIOT

every time I saw Gurpmaloni Changetrimeshu. And that’s really the name he wrote; I can still remember it.

THE POINT IS, eventually I bought the CD so I wouldn’t have to get up and flip the damn tape, and I LOVED it and I think Marvin accidentally stole it in the divorce, because the very last thing he wants is a bunch of fruity meditation music given to me by Gurpmaloni.

I told her that story, by the way, and she giggled. Oh, I adored her.

Anyway, m’tooth was hurting again last night, and I said, Goddammit. I really wish, what would really work, is if I still had that Dr. Andrew Weil CD, and I don’t. But you know what I did? Technology. I got it on iTunes, and I plugged my phone in next to my bed, and when that music started up, I almost started to cry.

I’d listened to that thing so often from, like, 2000 to maybe 2005, and then it got lost, and it was so nice to hear it again. And I fell asleep listening to it, slept like a LOG, and then today my mouth doesn’t hurt.

So I’ll link to it again if you want it. Or you could just iTunes it like I did. It was 12 dollars.

Namaste,
Junemaloni

June goes off the grid

I realize the best part of life is the thinner slice, and it don’t count for much.

What is wrong with me?

I realize I was supposed to write you Sunday for two–yes, TWO!!–special June weekend posts, but on Sunday I got into a weird cleaning frenzy and never did it.

The good news is, my floors are gleaming. The bad news is, you were bereft all Sunday. Then it was Sunday night, and your mom was spraying Hair So New on your wet hair while you watched Wonderful World of Disney

and ate a pot pie,

knowing you had school the next day and the weekend was over, and NO JUNE POST.

What is wrong with me?

Anyway, we can still have a …banquet this morning, so dry your tears. And your hair! It’s So New!

The reason I was going to write you Sunday is that my iPhotos had presented me with this weird grid the other day, a grid titled “People.” And indeed, it showed me people. Why these people, I don’t know.

But seeing as I’ve blogged at you for 11 years, give or take times I’ve allegedly FLOUNCED, it occurred to me that while I recognize all these folks, scarily, you might too. So I asked you: Who ARE these people?

And you answered. Often wrongly. So without further ado, because your ‘do is wet and it has Hair So New on it, let’s look at who’s on m’grid.

First person on the grid? Ned. That’s back when I liked him, when he still lived in his apartment. That’s all I have to say about grid number one.

That’s my stepfather, Harry, in the second place on said grid. He’s a saint. I remember that picture. My mother said, “Take a picture of Harry to put on Facebook, so his nieces can see him.” Then she photobombed.

Aunt Kathy. I couldn’t believe people didn’t know right away who this one was. I mean, how many times have I featured Aunt Kathy? And her Paul McCartney video?

Geez.

Okay, up next?

Aunt Kathy’s husband, Uncle Bill. He is very handy. Also, he never, like, relaxes. Like, he’ll fly to China, which he does a lot, then come home and replace the roof all weekend, then get on a plane to Germany.

I’ve no idea what he does. Maybe he’s an international handyman.

Most of you knew my youthful coworker Ryan. What a buncha Mrs. Robinsons you all are.

This is my coworker, fmr., Alex. Her name is actually Alex, so she got offended when I started calling everyone ELSE at work “Alex.” To be fair, there really used to be like 12 of them at once. Anyway, you know her from coming to my house to do yoga, and also being one of the youthful people I would drink with.

Cantankerous coworker Griff. Of Thus Saith Griff fame. I like how someone was all, “Your coworker Gif or whoever.” Gif. Dying.

One of the Alexes from work. She doesn’t work there anymore. She helped me make my brick house costume when I had that Dress as a Character From a Song party. She lives a mile away and we never see each other, despite several tepid, “Let’s get together” texts.

Wedding Alex. Been on this blog approximately one frillion times. I took credit for every nuance of her wedding, from claiming I sewed her dress to building the church brick by brick. I forget why. Oh, right. I’m an asshole.

The Other Copy Editor, fmr. We worked on the same team, but then she left to edit poetry for a living, a job I do not understand. How do you edit poetry? Anyway, she also owns the B&B where I drink, as they have Come Drink at Our B&B Wednesdays, she and her husband do.

Aw. Another one of the Alexes. She left to take a very fancy job. She has a single dad my age who is hot hot hot, a thing I never let drop, and I wonder why I rarely hear from her. Hunh.

This Alex was in my blog also 21 frillion times, when she worked with me. She’s gone, too. She and I got pedicures, we had dinner together, I forced her to go to the psychic with me. I mean, we did it all. I also talked her into going on OK Cupid after her breakup, and she met her boyfriend on there, and is still with him, so get ready for another June Takes the Credit Wedding coming to a blog near you.

Dick Whitman. First person I dated once I was single. We dated for I think two terrible months, then we became friends, and then I got mad at him because when Ned and I broke up, he wasn’t what you’d call around. I felt bad. I felt abandoned. I felt all sorts of things. Anyway, when his mom, Dick Whitman’s Mom, died, we did have a nice chat about how great his mom was, so it’s not a terrible or anything, between us.

Camilo, of the banana Camilos. Like, we just talked about him LAST POST, so don’t be giving me any, “Who’s that.”

TinaDoris. We worked together; now she works with OKCupid Alex. I went to her wedding, I saged her haunty house, I blog-named her baby Borbala Rut. She’s having another baby, and I am the father.

I just want you to know, whomever called Austin, “Jerome or whoever,” I have called him nothing but Jerome ever since. I went to his house this Christmas Eve, he has the really good wallpaper in the kitchen, with the measuring cups and so on. He’s my favorite person at work.

Marty Martin. Friend in real life. Boyfriend of Kayeeeee. Marty is good people.

See. I already said Austin was my favorite person at work, but The Poet is also my favorite person at work. She is the other white meat. The Poet is being flown to London for a week, to read her poems, as she is The Poet. I’d be such an asshole if I were as fabulous as she is. Look at what an asshole I am at THIS level.

This is my coworker Molly. I go see her perform sometimes, as she swallows swords. No. She sings and plays guitar, and I like all of her songs. All of them.

Yet another Alex who was actually named Alex. She works with OKCupid Alex and TinaDoris now, in some new place where I don’t actually understand what they do. Anyway, she’s British, this Alex is, and she used to live in TinyTown, which you don’t see every day.

Faithful Reader LaUral. She wrote me and said, “I read your blog, and I’m not crazy but I can tell we work right near each other.” This was when I would do things like meet someone who read my blog. Now I’m wary. Too many creepy things have happened. But LaUral slipped in under the wire.

My tenant, fmr. She became my tenant, then got a job where I work, worked there for a few years, and Friday was her last day. I’m, like, the Last Woman Standing. I feel like some wizened old veteran there, with my seven years going on.

Aw. My boss, fmr. I miss him. I miss him more than I thought I would. He was always good for amusing conversation. And he and Griff would bicker like two old married people.

Kayeeeeee. Marty Martin’s girlfriend. Let me move in with her for those six weeks after Ned and I broke up and my tenant, fmr., was moving out. Kayeeee. Not a fan of Tracy Anderson workout videos.

And finally, none of you were right. This is Ned’s mom. I think I’ve only had her in my blog maybe five times in six years. So you’d have to be a careful, careful, possibly even obsessed reader to catch that one.

So there it is. My grid. And now I’m fairly exhausted.

Gridily,
Jooon

The Oddly Psychic Señor Kittens

We have many items to cover today, so let’s get right to business [straightenss her papers the way Walter Cronkite did].

Just so I don’t go all over the place, as I’m wont to do, Ima tell you right now I wish to address the asshole on a dating site, my cool new manicurist, and the answers to our grid yesterday.

Oh, and before I begin (OH MY GOD, JUNE), I do want to tell you that when I woke up today, Edsel was pressed along the length of me, as he does, and at the top, Iris was similarly pressed against me, and Eds was using her as a pillow.

Had I not been pinned in a dog/cat sandwich, and had it not been black as pitch, I’d have captured it on film for you. He loves his cats, Edsel does.

Iris didn’t mind, by the way. She was purring and starfishing her paws.

And also (SERIOUSLY JUNE, TAKE A RITALIN), Camilo my coworker never addressed The Banana yesterday, after ALL THAT BUILDUP the day before. I even sent a very pressing work email about it, and nothing.

I saw on our work Instagram account that he was, like, literally lying on the floor of the studio, setting up an image for a work thing, but I truly feel that bananas should take precedence, when one has PROMOTED the idea that you’ve learned something so new about them that your brain “literally” exploded.

But, as with the majority of the emails I send at work, it went unnoticed. So.

Yes, we have no banana stories.

So, the asshole on the dating site.

A few months ago, I noted that I was done trying to date. I gave up. At least for the time being. But I was procrastinating the other day, and I technically HAD Tinder, I just had it deactivated. So all I hadda do was fire it back up, and that is when I immediately saw Ned, got pissed and decided to stay on it with a vengeance.

Won’t you buy my book, “Mature Reactions, by June Gardens”?

One of the profile photos I have up is from my Frida Kahlo costume, although I think I used one where I’m outside, not this one. It doesn’t matter. Why can’t I just tell a fucking story?

Another photo I have on there is my photo from that app that makes you look about 10 times better than you do. I have written under it, “The photo where I look hot is an app, unfortunately.”

Today I get a message from a new potential swain. “Who’s Frida Kahlo?”

See. Okay.

Like, if you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t know who she is, you’re not going to be the kind of guy I like. You’re just not. You probably love watching professional football while at the bar at Applebee’s. You probably love Pixar films, and justify it by saying, “They write them so adults can enjoy them, too.”

You probably claim you were “in all the groups” in high school and you “got along with everybody.”

I don’t have time for the middle of the spectrum. I need an edge.

But look where that’s gotten me thus far. So I responded, with all the patience of a SAINT, “She was an artist. Mostly during the ’40s and ’50s. Was married to Diego Rivera.”

I mean, allow me to Google that for you.

As I was writing that, he wrote, “The one where you’re hot is an app?”

Wow.

So, after he read the info on Frida, he responded, “Oh, the one with the unibrow.”

Do you get wings and a Bud Lite at Applebee’s, or…?

“And the one where you’re hot,” he repeated. “An app?”

“That’s an app?”

He did that twice. He wrote “an app,” and then followed it up with the extremely necessary “That’s an app?”

“I believe I noted that, verbatim, yes,” I wrote back. Annoyed. Then I couldn’t stand it.

“I also believe repeatedly peppering a woman about the genesis of ‘the one’ photo where she’s hot might not be the smoothest method for meeting someone, particularly when ‘the one’ hot photo was addressed in my profile.”

Then I unmatched his ass. I whip out the sexy school marm vocab when I’m pissed.

I mean, hide your true colors till you’ve got me hooked, like the other men I’ve dated. Geez.

At least I’ve found love in a hand job.

I haven’t had a pedicure since fall, and what with the broken toe and all, I will continue to not have one. I decided, however, to have a manicure last night, because it’s been a hard week of fending off Appleasses. Asslebees.

I usually go, which you know from your Big Book of June Events, to Elegant Nail & Tan (Slogan, “We actually have no way for you to tan”), but there is another nail place closer (Slogan, “We’re two minutes from your door, as opposed to three”) and I’ve never given them a try, so last night I did.

“So, what’s your story?” asked the manicure guy, and we told each other our life stories.

Oh my god, he was da bomb. He’s hilarious, and he loves Italian food, and he made two of my nails reflective metallic!

It turns out, it’s really hard to photograph your hand.

Okay, see? One’s like a hologram. And I know my cuticles are terrible. I bite them.

Anyway, he was hilarious and smart, and also oddly psychic. He mentioned saying something on my blog before I told him I had one. He asked if I needed a phone charge before I realized I did need one. We discussed his blog name and he said, “Señor Kittens.”

“You don’t even HAVE kittens,” said the woman next to him.

Weird. The Oddly Psychic Señor Kittens.

I see that I have droned on and have not addressed our grid from yesterday, wherein you listed all the people from my photos.

I do not have time now to break them all down for you, but tune in tomorrow for a Very Special Saturday June where I reveal all. Maybe I’ll even finally have that banana story. Sounds appealing, June!

The one-hot-photo gal,
June

 

 

Drivin’ all the old men crazy.

A good part about how they’ve put me on multiple accounts at work is that I’ve gotten to know more coworkers who aren’t Griff. Also, I’ve gotten to know people I’ve worked with all these years, but rarely talked to because we weren’t on the same account.

It can get (ready?) siloed at work.

One of those corporate terms I love.

What they mean is everyone’s working on their own shit so you don’t talk. But they changed that up now, and I’m on three or four accounts at any given time, and yes, everything DOES come to me all at once and everyone needs everything immediately, but that’s not important right now.

What’s important is I’ve gotten to know people I didn’t know before, including a coworker who I will call

Oh my god.

I just ran her through the Random Name Generator, and they want me to call her Lottie Blanco, which I know is slightly confusing given that I had a dog named Lottie,

She was delicious

but it’s such a marvelous name that I can’t help but use it.

So, my coworker, Lottie Blanco, is married to a woman with the same name. The Lottie Blanco I work with is a very down-to-earth-seeming person, at least compared to me, which does not set the bar high. Miss Piggy is more down-to-earth than me. But really, Lottie Blanco is the type who wanders over calmly and says, “Welp. I got 26 articles for you to read by 5:00” and then stands there emotionlessly, whereas I would deliver this news with a shaking hanky and a paper bag to breathe into.

The point is, she hates snakes. ALERT, FAITHFUL READER TEE. ALERT. SNAKE STORY.

Lottie Blanco and her wife Lottie Blanco live near some woods, and for awhile they had mice, despite having two very cute cats. I mean, really, they are extraordinarily cute–both blonde, one fluffier than the other. The fluffy one was wandering around skinny and homeless and looking like Ren when they got her. The point is, eventually the mice went away, and they were all, hunh. Well, good.

One afternoon my coworker Lottie Blanco was up in the attic, taking a box down for a yard sale they were gonna have, and when she lifted the box

A

GIANT

RAT

SNAKE

was curled up under it. According to my coworker Lottie Blanco, she actually managed to step on her wife Lottie Blanco’s HEAD while screaming and screeching out of the attic like a screaming screeching person.

And this is why I like working on different accounts.

The point is, and yes there is a point besides that stellar story, is yesterday Lottie Blanco The Snake Hater asked me to join a little team celebration at a downtown bar/arcade called Boxcar.

June downtown. Driving all the old men crazy.

Everyone raves on about that place, but I never went, because what do I care about an arcade?

Except nobody told me THERE WERE PINBALL MACHINES.

When I was a kid, we HAD a pinball machine. It was called Skipper, and my father bought it somewhere or other. Maybe at sea. Maybe from Gilligan. I just don’t know.

This is a terrible picture of Skipper. Let me Google fucking it some more.

It’s for identification only. It’s NOT part of the kit! I have no idea what that means.

The point is, I spent approximately 11,000 youthful hours in my basement, playing Skipper, and what I wouldn’t give to have that particular game back. Pinball machines were simpler then, as was life, other than that racism and sexism and homophobia stuff that has SO CLEARLY gone away now. Thank god that’s been cleared up.

Photo credit: Lottie Blanco

Despite the fact that today’s pinball machine is now really dark and you can’t see where the goddamn ball is anymore, I took my complimentary tokens and played me some pinball for, oh, an hour and a half. Oh, how I love it.

And it all came back to me. I’d say “like riding a bike” except I don’t know how to ride a bike. But I won two free games, and I got the highest score of the week on one machine, and got to put m’name in!

I also summarily beat Lottie Blanco at air hockey. I did this by slipping into a snake costume when she wasn’t expecting it.

Hey, June, say “Lottie Blanco” one more time.

I left downtown, as all the old men had been reported as 5150s, and on over to The Other Copy Editor’s bed and breakfast, where she was having her regular Wine Wednesday event, this time with a band that was apparently quite popular, seeing as I had to park on the corner of Rape and Mug and walk 200 miles. No one bothered me because I still had on m’snake suit.

It was my coworker Molly’s idea to go there, and of course she’s one of those people like my grandfather who knows every single person in town, which begs the question why can’t she think of one nice man to set me up with? Not that my grandfather was any help in that department, either.

Anyway, the band really was good, but I hadda go, because I needed to get up at 5:20.

You what? Great Lottie Blancos in the morning.

I promised my stupid friend TinaDoris that I’d meet her at stupid Pure Barre at a stupid 6 a.m. stupid class. When the alarm went off, I rolled over and said, “Edsel.”

Oh my god, did that poor dog ever startle awake. gud graby, it 7:00 alreddee?

The cats are always lined up along the hallway when I open the bedroom door, but this morning there was nary a cat in sight.

eyeriss can’t eben wif dis time of day. she TRYING to eben, but she can’t eben.

In case you don’t have one in your town or something, and you know what I hate? Is when people say, “If you’ve been living under a rock…”

Oh, hohohohoho!!! God, that’s original. Lemme stitch m’sides.

Anyway.

In case you don’t know what Pure Barre is, it’s a one-hour exercise program designed to make you wish for your own swift death right there at a ballet barre.

Holy shit.

TinaDoris goes six days a week. TinaDoris looks magnificent. TinaDoris can suck it.

I came home at 7:03 (silver lining: Pure Barre is stupidly close to my house) and ate all the toast. There is no toast anywhere in the country.

“Hey, where’s the toast?”

“Pure Junne ate it.”

So that’s been my last 24 hours, and try to cram some activity in, Juan. But despite my run-aroundy life of music and pinball and allegedly burning calories that get replaced immediately by toast, I did NOT forget our lipstick pact. Today we try Whole Lotta Honey.

Also, before I forget, we’re going to have an exciting new feature here at Book of Pies. My boss, fmr., is going to show us her Stitch Fix box every month, and we get to vote on what she should keep and what she should return! She already decided on this month’s shipment, which I will feature for you tomorrow, so you’ve got that to live for.

And listen. If you do anything, check in with me Saturday this week. I have something SO STUPIDLY EXCITING to show you then.

Meanwhile, Whole Lotta Honey…

Hunh. Yeah, okay. Whole lotta eh.

Wet-harriedly,

June

June Heads Back

I meant to get here earlier, but I was on the phone all morning.

Recently, I discovered I had 5.5 days left of vacation time that I did not take this year, and while I can roll three of them over, I also took today and tomorrow off. Ima Christmas shop today, and then tomorrow I planned to scatter Tallulah’s ashes.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

you wut?

Tuesday was what would have been Lu’s 10th birthday, and it dawned on me that I should scatter some of her ashes where I found her, near TinyTown, and then maybe at our old house in TinyTown if I don’t get arrested, and then some in my backyard, and then I found a store on Etsy that sort of bakes in some ashes with metal and then you have a necklace. Also, say “and then” one more time.

So that’s what’s going to become of Talu. She was an outdoor girl; she wouldn’t have wanted to be in that stereo speaker on my shelf forever.

And by the way, I did not find Lu in TinyTown, proper. Hey, I wonder if my haters think I made up finding her, too. Anyway, I FOUND her on a busy two-lane road when I was driving to Raleigh for a job interview. And girl, once I got this idea, you have no CLUE how long it took for me to figure out just exactly where I found her. But I did it!!

Here it is! Here is the busy corner! This shot was taken November of 2007, and since she was just a pup when I found her, the vet estimated she was born December 5, 2007. I COMBED this shot for a pregnant dog, because HOW WONDERFUL would that have been to see in this photo? A Beagle or a Pit, all heavy with Lu child. Maybe Lu’s mom was inside, with her new pups already. What if I get there tomorrow and one of Lu’s siblings is there?? GUESS WHO I WILL BE BRINGING HOME.

So, I guess it was maybe because I was planning this, but today I had a bad feeling, a weird feeling, and I Googled my friend Lucy, from TinyTown.

She and I got up with each other a few years ago–we went to the museum in Charlotte, and had ourselves maybe a bit of wine in the museum cafeteria. So cultured!

I found out that she died in her sleep this year. I wish someone from TTown had told me. I’d have stampeded back there for her funeral.

Lucy was one of the women who belonged to the Episcopal church, where I was a stunning and effective church secretary. I really liked all the women there, I really did, but she was special  to me. She was beautiful, first of all, which is important to me, because spiritual and deep. Also, she had this low, sexy voice, and was ready to be sarcastic at the turn of a dime. She’s everything I wish I was, had I been born Southern.

I dearly loved her.

So, I called her husband, Dr. Whit. He’d been the TinyTown doctor forever. Pretty much delivered every resident. Lucy agreed to marry him after I think three weeks. She told me she didn’t want anyone else to get him.

“Hello, June,” he said, as he picked up the phone.

“How’d you know it was me?” My number AND my last name have changed since we last spoke.

“My TV told me,” he said.

Dang. Things got fancy in TinyTown. Also, I love how everyone there still has a real phone. Anyway, we had ourselves a nice talk about Lucy, whom it turns out we were both pretty fond of and

OH MY GOD! CRAP! I just remembered! Out of all the hilarious memories I have of her, I remember she said she wanted to be cremated, and then she wanted to be put in a cardboard box, so she could be ashes to ashes ASAP.

But she wanted to be in a TIFFANY box. And I, idiot that I am, CALLED TIFFANY to ask if they’d just send me a box. Then I told them why.

News flash: They did not send me a box.

DAMMIT. I wonder if she got her Tiffany box. Oh, this all makes me want to cry. I WISH I had known she was so ill.

The point is, I’m not only headed to TinyTown tomorrow to scatter Lu, but also Ima have lunch with the good doctor. Then Ima pop over, drive all the way across town, as it were, to see the Johnson-Johnstons, a couple I also liked from the church. Her maiden name was Johnson, and she married a Johnston. Or vice versa. Anyway, I have thought of them often because they, too, moved out of their house, then back in, and hung pictures right back up where they’d been, and when I moved back here after my year abroad I thought of that a lot.

They did it for a job, though. Not a tumultuous relationship. So.

In all, I am v v excited about tomorrow, and I will fill you in on all the deets as soon as I can. I’m so glad I got to live in TinyTown for as long as I did. I heart those people.

And I really hope Lucy got her Tiffany box, after all.

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,

Who 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.

And 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

June wraps up her trip; bored nation rejoices

If you’re just getting back from your Thanksgiving holiday, and I say “holiday” like we’re all British, there are several days of my posts for you to catch up on and I wish you luck. I wish you luck mucking through all my ins and outs.

For the rest of you, who kept up with me like good readers, here’s the rest of my trip back to Michigan…

When we left each other yesterday, saying, “No, YOU hang up,” Gus had been doing tricks in my mother’s yard, fmr., and then I might have kissed him with my red lipstick. I remember back in the ’90s, kissing my mother’s fluffy white Samoyed with my then-fushia lipstick, and my poor beleaguered stepfather in the kitchen, patiently washing it off that dog’s head.

Oooo, speaking of lipstick…

Both on the way to Michigan and on the way back, I may have looked with rapt interest in the Mac store at Chicago airport, noting these lipsticks were all for sale as one unit, a unit someone might like, if someone were trying to determine what June Would Like For Christmas, a query that’s burning in the brains of just er’one.

I’d look like an asshole in the second-from-the-left one. That burnt orange look does not appeal. But speaking of needless purchases, isn’t it Cyber Monday? Wouldn’t this be an excellent time to link to Amazon, so you can purchase like a mo?

Oh, look! A book about how we shouldn’t consume, that if we click on it takes us to Amazon so we can consume. Oh, June, you’re so ironic. Don’tcha think. A little too ironic. Yeah, I really do think.

But I digress.

On Friday night of my trip to Michigan, my Aunt Kathy had us over for tacos, and by “my Aunt Kathy,” I mean my Uncle Bill made tacos.

Some families form a conga line. We form a taco line. [Insert taco/Katie-the-lesbian joke here]

My Aunt Kathy, who is a Virgo, had already decorated for Christmas. Like, that day. She started the day with no Christmas, and by the end of the day she was swinging on her North Pole.

Do you remember that guy Ward who I went out with like three times or something, and then it didn’t work out? He texted me over the holiday (British), and I answered him, telling him how all the women in my family prattle endlessly and all the men are sort of quiet and introspective. Okay, not my Uncle Leo. But the other men. Anyway, below is yet another piano-playing video, this time not horrific like the last one, where one of the men is being deep and yet you can hear women prattling in the background. I recorded this for his listening pleasure. I think it was around then that he stopped texting.

In summation.

After dinner, my cousin Big June and her husband Hill came to surprise me, and it was so cute to see them. She gets migraines, too. Is plagued by them, actually.

Maybe had I not been named after her I wouldn’t have migraines. Maybe they could have named me after a tennis star or something instead. Step one: Get tennis star in family.

fukking schtopz

Also, here is my aunt’s cat, Tom Thumbs. Did not at all follow Tom Thumbs around like an idiot, scooting across floor with phone out like a moron. That would not be fittin’. Did not at all call him kitty head or sweet kitten or kitty hitchhiker kitten face wif thumbses.

Finally, it was Saturday and time for me to go, but not before Hulk rejected me for sports. Also, Dear June: *of.

I returned home without incident, late Saturday night. It was too late to get Edsel from daycare, so I slept with Lily, who was beside herself that I’d returned, and if you look carefully, you can see an extremely indifferent Steely Dan down the hall.

hooo gif shit

The other, more normal, cats were happy to see me, in their cat way. “wee not say hi, but we sleep on you a lots.”

The cat-sitter told me that every day, SD and Lily would come blinking down the hall, like, O, do someone bee heer? And every time, Iris was asleep in the dog bed.

Speaking of my cats, I was writing you in my regular fashion, not that I’m pooping, when I saw this shadow…

Here’s the annoying part: I’ve already let him in today. But there he is, mysteriously on the other side of the door, as he is wont to be. And yet, he still wishes for me to get up and let him in the traditional way right now. Sneak out whatever way he’s figured out? Sure. But inconveniencing me to come back in? Oh, HELL, sure. So many sures.

And he wasn’t hungry; he’d already eaten. He wasn’t sleepy. Evil rarely sleeps. He just wanted to be sure to remind me that my coffee repels him. My coffee should be stopped. As soon as he can gather funds, he’s going to bribe a lobbyist to get coffee outlawed.

Asshole. Why do I love him so? This sums up all my relationships.

I’d better get to work, which I am actually looking forward to doing. Tomorrow is my mammogram, which has not haunted and terrified me since I made the appointment or anything. Do you all know from EMDR? It’s a kind of therapy they do for trauma. I really think I should get EMDR so I’m not so

EFFING

INSANE

during mammogram week. Am considering.

Meanwhile, here’s an Amazon link again, in case it inconveniences you to scroll up. I want to make it was easy as I can for you, so that I will become a millionaire. Also, I got my new credit score today, and it’s in the high 700s.

You know, at the beginning of the year, I made the New Year’s resolution to fix my finances, and I actually did it. I worked freelance jobs ALL YEAR LONG. And I got my debt cleared. And I upped my contribution to my four oh wonk.

I still don’t make a lot of money, but at least I don’t have debt haunting me. Just mammograms.

Anyway, here’s your second Amazon link.

Resent. Also, wish Crazy Cat Lady ornament did not look so much like self.

Sanely,

Juuun

P.S. Someone will ask, so I will assure you I got the Eds from daycare Sunday, and he was…enthused about seeing me.

I had a migraine (thanks, world), so he spent the entire day with his snout up on my berobed self. No, seriously. THE ENTIRE DAY.

Steely Dan made barf sounds from across the room and rolled his orange cat eyes.

1136 words, dear god,

Jooon

June blogs from home

Do you like how I keep using “blog” as a verb? You’re welcome.

When we were last together, promising to write while Mister pulled us apart (“NOTHING BUT DEATH COULD KEEP ME FROM IT”),

Dear June: Watch new movies. You’re killing us. Also, “blog” is a noun. Love, All 10 Readers.

I think it was Thanksgiving, or maybe the day after. It’s all a blur, man. A blur of carbs. So I’ll start up where we left off, except for the tiny detail that I can’t recall where we left off.

Dear June: SCROLL DOWN. God. Signed, Nine readers, because one of us got sick of you.

Here are some other things I did on my trip to Michigan other than have Thanksgiving…

Walked with mom. It really wasn’t that cold out, and yet mom was ready to climb Everest with her outdoor garb. She kept texting my stepfather about which base camp we were at.

Shopped with women. I feel like we were super original in this regard, as no other women in the country ventured out to stores on the Friday after Thanksgiving. You will see that my cousin Katie the Lesbian joined us–she hadn’t been at Thanksgiving because she is a nurse and was scheduled to work. I’d be all, fuck that. People can wait. Have you MET stuffing?

It’s funny, I keep thinking the Pope will write me about that sainthood, but he keeps writing back New phone, who dis.

Is it sainthood? Is that what it’s called when someone besaints you? It would appear that I don’t know.

Anyway, my mother and I popped into this vintage/resale/some new stuff store she likes, and careful readers will note that all I ever do is go to vintage/some new/resale stores and what genetics? Anyway, we’d been there awhile, exclaiming over these incredibly bad purses, that had gems and leopard spots and big diamonds for clasps, and wondering what kind of asshole would buy them, when lo and behold who was at the store but my Aunt Kathy and my lesbian cousin Katie.

Uncareful readers will note that Katie is not a lesbian at all, but her niece, as a very small child, asked her if she were a lesbian, assuring her it’s okay to be gay, because she felt Aunt Katie dressed like a lesbian, which continues to be my favorite thing anyone has ever said, other than Ozzy Osbourne saying, “Things could be worse. I could be Sting.”

Say, short sentence. How’re your short sentences treatin’ ya?

The point is, we shopped the store again, as Katie was looking for a chest of drawers, and maybe a chest of a woman, given her wardrobe choices. And HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED. We got up to one of the terrible purses, each one more gaudy than the next, and Katie said, “June, do you not love these? I could so see you with one of these purses.”

SHE WAS SERIOUS.

“What? You like gaudy!”

I mean.

There’s gaudy and there’s middle-aged, look-how-whimiscal, when-I-am-old-I-shall-wear-purple-at-Olive-Garden-with-20-other-friends gaudy.

My mother and I kept presenting Katie with lovely old chests, and we garnered a few Mardi Gras beads for our efforts. BAH. No. We found midcentury, curvy, painted-pale-green, just lovely dressers, and Katie would be all, “Oh, uh-huh, yeah” with this FEIGNED interest, till she’d come across a jet black dresser with rabbit skulls for drawer pulls. “Oh, this one’s nice,” she’d say. Or the unvarnished one that’d been beaten with Micky’s Big Mouth 40-ouncers for character. “This one’s great.”

Aunt Katie, you dresser like a lesbian.

Aunt Kathy got large sunglasses, and I got this poncho WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHIMSICAL MIDDLE AGE? We tried to pose like fashionable mannequins, but had no dignity.

Dignity.

Dignity deux.

I don’t look good in sunglasses. I look like a man. Or a bug. Or a man who bugs me, aka everyone with a peen.

After, mom and I went to her old house. A sale is pending, but in the meantime, it’s still hers. If I had time, I’d find old photos and compare them to her blank house, but I like to stay active.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Dining room, mostly empty.

Dining room, now with painful memories!

The only picture I could find is this shot with Ned in it, and I hope you’re happy that I put this up and then felt physically ill and had to poop. I pooped for you people.

Dear June, Thanks. Signed, Eight of us, because one of us was all, oh good. Bowel talk. And then left.

Empty living room. I guess the buyer is keeping some of the furniture.

Hello. I’m the kitchen, here to make you sad.

Sigh.

“Everything is sad, honey.” A-mom-ican Gothic.

The good news is that Gus’s obstacle course equipment was still back there, and despite his being 104 and never hearing me when I talked to him this time, he was up in his playground. Gus likes to stay active. He also likes brunch and walks on the beach, and is looking for a partner in crime.

(I hate online dating. In case anyone wonders how that’s going.)

“lookeeeng for dog hooo really take care of herself.”

giv ups, human sistur. yuu past peek.

Also in my mother’s basement is an old piano, that is sadly out of tune, and I’m sorry to tell you there are four–FOUR–sad videos of us trying to play heart and soul.

I see that I have droned on for nearly a thousand words already, and I ONLY GOT THROUGH FRIDAY and not even FRIDAY NIGHT, and you know how I love the nightlife. How I’ve got to boogie. Because who’s 52?

So I will report back tomorrow with more riveting highlights of my trip. However, I can’t leave without giving you a convenient Amazon link with which to shop shop shop, because it’s almost Christmas, and it’s time to spend way too much to fill the hollow blackness that lies inside us.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Up there is a link to Amazon, which happens to be more than $500 worth of Mac cosmetics, and talk about filling your empty blackness. I feel like that would do it. For, you know, like an hour!

Pink Uggs would also quiet the unrest.

“Best Christmas of all? Not having to bail June’s ass out of debtor’s prison. Again.” –Mom

If you shop using June, you will make a mom happy at Christmas. AND I DO NOT HAVE DEBT ANYMORE. I do need a new dishwasher, however. Oooo, wait…

Okay, seriously? You can get a DISHWASHER on Amazon?

Talk at you tomorrow.

Homily,

Joon

Enter rambling

You know what I want for Christmas? One of those paper towel holders that you stand up on your counter.

^^^^^AMAZON LINK!^^^^^^

Several months ago, one of you said, Hey, June. Why don’t you become an Amazon Associate to earn more money? And so I did. I put up a permanent link to Amazon on my sidebar (See? See it? Are you looking at my side bar? [slap] Keep your eyes off my side bar. Perv).

And sometimes I’d throw in an Amazon image here in the post that, if you click on it, you get to Amazon, and say Amazon one more time.

And by the way, for some reason I can’t ever put a link to Amazon with words on it. Like, one of these…

//ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=US&source=ac&ref=tf_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=booko04-20&marketplace=amazon&region=US&placement=B000G62YE8&asins=B000G62YE8&linkId=2f1089c847f0610c1fab92ac91e31505&show_border=false&link_opens_in_new_window=false&price_color=333333&title_color=0066c0&bg_color=ffffff

See.

THE POINT IS, I am forever forgetting to add links to Amazon in my posts.

1. So, click these images
2. You’ll get to Amazon.
3. If you shop after you’ve clicked over,
4. I get cash.
5. Cold cash.
6. Don’t you have Christmas shopping to do or whatever?

Forgetting to add Amazon links is why I don’t have money. I’m not ambitious enough.

And speaking of numbers, yesterday I was talking to a reader who said, “The number of comments you get don’t represent how many readers you get.”

….!

Of COURSE it doesn’t. Did she really think that 50 people read me a day? That’s so sad. Also, I forget that not everyone works in social media the way I do.

Anyway, I told her how many readers I get normally, and then she looked at how many comments I get normally.

I rarely check how many comments I get. I just get emails from you when you comment and go, “Heh, yeah” or “HAHAHAHAHA” or “Oh, fuck YOU” or whatever. Anyway, she figured out it’s like one comment for every 35 or 52 readers or something.

It was maths. Reader, can you remember the exact ratio? Cause you know how I get with numbers. They come to me on gossamer wings and flitter out my head dusting rose-gold glitter.

Not-So-Faithful-Reader Ryan and I took a walk yesterday. “You’re too TALL to photograph,” I kvetched, so he came up with this dramatic scenario so I could fit him into the frame…

Believable. Do you beLIEVE in life after love {after love after love}

I guess mostly what I did today was enter here rambling, and talking about Amazon and numbers and hooo care, then plunk you into the middle of my yesterday and not be linear at all.

I once took an African literature class, which is something you do in college when you’re all high on the gange, which actually I never was but roll with it, so to speak. Anyway, I read a story where this person wandered a village, and each hut had a number, and he’d visit Hut 4 then Hut 86 then Hut 3, and all the American people were all OH MY GOD VISIT IN ORDER.

Which was a thing we didn’t even NOTICE was bugging us till the professor pointed out we were being, I don’t know, not African or something.

So thank heavens at least 10 of my 50 readers are in Africa.

Anyway, Nervous Nellie and I visited the vet yesterday, where it turns out that even though I am spending $800 a month on flea meds, the fleas are resisting and now Eds, and most likely his cat backups, are having the fleas. Dammit.

And here’s what happened. Yesterday after said vet appointment, I got on Facebook and I was all Diagnosis: Fleas. And then I said the vet had to prescribe something.

This was followed by 939549323 comments with people telling me what flea medication to get.

“But I–”

“See, I already–”

“Yeah, I got–”

I give up.

I also, on Facebook, asked everyone to not IM me, and one person I don’t actually know in real life wrote, “Oh, but I IM you to show my eternal love” or whatever, and I wrote back and said, “Yeah. that’s great, but an unbalanced person contacted me that way, twice, and now every time my IM thing lights up, I get shaky and sick thinking she’s back.”

I understand, she wrote.

The very next day she sent an IM. No apology, no “I know you don’t want IMs,” nothing. And it was a goddamn animated thing about Christmas. Hey, unfriend.

I mean, I could not have expressed my needs and why I had them more clearly. Jesus.

Also, I stepped on Steely Dan last night. I didn’t MEAN to. I didn’t plan a night of STOMP at my house or anything. He was in the hall, and it was dark in the hall, and he is dark, and I know you have gotten the drift and wish I’d move on already.

I TRIPPED over him with one foot, then STOMPED terrecktly on his tail and oh, did he HISS and run off.

Did you ever chase after a cat you were just accidentally mean to? It’s so fruitless.

“I’M SORRY STEELY DAN! I LOVE YOU HONEY. MAMA’s SO SORRY!” He did not give one shit. It was not possible for him to have put his ears back any more fiercely.

As you can see, above, he forgave me enough to lurk on the fridge for breakfast. So. We’re working past it, with time and counseling.

How many photos of cats in that window ARE there, do you think?

Oh my god, Francis was SUCH a dick.

Anyway, I know I had other things to tell you, but I am Africa today, so I’m all over the place.  I have GOT to get my freelance work done this weekend, and I have a hundred pages to go, followed by spellchecking it and looking for consistencies throughout, which means I only have about 86 hours to go.

And no, I’m NOT being paid by the hour. I got a flat fee. This whole book was so stressful that instead of using the money I earn for something practical, I’m getting a kilo of weed, a willing lawn boy and Boston Market delivered to my door.

Can you even buy weed by the “kilo”? I should probably get into drugs briefly so these references remotely ring true.

I leave you with the following Gladys Kravitz news: My youngster neighbor is moving. Or else he’s a lesbian on his third date.

Not that I’m glued to my window like a shut-in or anything, but I noted his girlfriend left awhile back, and maybe he’s going wherever she went.

That’s the house where the lady would come home from third-shift nursing in the morning, with a paper bag of fast food, and I wanted to run over and tell her, “You’re moving more and more slowly, and it’s this fast food that’s killing you,” because as we all know, my food pyramid is banging.

Turns out, she was dying. She got diagnosed on Halloween, was dead by New Year’s day. She no longer felt hale and Hardee’s.

This is why I have bad luck.

So then this whippersnapper moved in a few years back, and I guess he’ll be selling the house, or god forbid renting it to his delinquent friends. But whatever happens, I hope that nice couch stays on the curb just forever. Total Joey and Chandler couch.

Okay, talk at you. I’ll try to write this weekend, as I will be isolating to get my work done and if I don’t somehow contact the outside world, I will get weird. Which you can see I’m far from.

Normally,

June