Perhaps felines are mentioned briefly

Awhile back, I went to the animal shelter for fun, because I’m the only person in America who goes to the animal shelter for fun. Others play softball. At least that’s what I imagine the normal folk do.

They had a banner up: Fosters for Puppies and Kittens Needed.

It was like the best sentence of my life, along with Free Lipstick, No Purchase Necessary. Which isn’t really a sentence. Neither was “fosters for puppies and kittens needed.”

The best sort-of sentence of my life, along with “I’m Morris Chestnut and I need a woman to climb up on me.” Which actually was a sentence.

Also, hi, mom.

The point is, I volunteered. Not for puppies ALTHOUGH I WOULD. But it seemed like bringing back a puppy carcass, just sort of leaning it on their doorframe, isn’t what they had in mind at the animal shelter.

Last month, I fostered an orange and white kitten named Jodie Foster.

IMG_2954.jpgShe was MEANT to stay in the back bedroom, but that did not happen.

IMG_2938.jpgFortunately, she was a big hit with everyone here. And when she was ready to be adopted, she found a home that same day.

The point of fostering is you take home kittens who aren’t ready yet–they’re too young, they have an upper respiratory thing, that sort of snafu.

IMG_4169.jpgMy current crop, that I got yesterday, is too young. They’re jailbait. That is a disgusting term.

Anyway, I have a mom cat, Nancy,

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#%&&#*
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She gots ear tuftses
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#@@%&!!

and her four babies. The shelter already named them, so all my brilliant Nancy-related names were for naught.

IMG_4042.jpgThe black one is a girl, named Trixie. Because apparently she’s a waitress at a truck stop in the ’50s. Despite this dramatic photo, she is the most laid back one.

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trixeee really do be

IMG_4157.jpgIMG_4166.jpgLexi is gray with some butterscotch, and if anyone is going to wander off on her own, it’s she. She doesn’t need anyone. Well. For like 15 seconds at a time. Then she does.

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lexeee leeving soon

Below is Vicki, a tortoiseshell.

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wat that meen?

IMG_4021.jpgI got the kittens at lunch–screamed down to the shelter, got them all in a carrier, screamed home and set them up in their room, then screamed back to work, where while I was gone I had gotten two will-take-hours jobs that both needed to be done before 4:00. Relaxing. The point is, when I got home–and oh my god I could not wait to get home–Vicki, the little tortoiseshell, was having titty dinner with her mom. On this chair that is fur-free. Good lord.

That’s what my gramma called it. Titty dinner.

When I was a kid, I was friends with a girl named Vicki, and this is all so odd. Because when I was up there describing how I could not wait to get home, this memory flashed, of playing in the backyard at Vicki’s. Her dad owned a business in the back of their house–I think they still do. They had this little building in the way-back part of their yard.

They hired an assistant, this young girl who happened to live next door in a big pretty house they’d turned into apartments. I know she lived there with her boyfriend, and I don’t recall how I knew that. Did he work at that place in the backyard, too? And did they get the jobs first and happen to find a place next door, or did they live next door and happen upon these jobs? These Qs burn in my brain.

The point is, Vicki and I were playing in her yard when that woman got out of work, and she TORE across the backyard to her boyfriend. She didn’t even notice us; she was all aglow, looking over at their house, and you could tell she just couldn’t WAIT to get home. She ran right past us and The Sunshine Family.

That was what I thought of yesterday at work when I was toiling, knowing there were kittens at home. How I just wanted to stare at my house as I ran home. And then I looked up this kitten’s name on the papers I have, and it’s Vicki.

Clearly I am psychic. Or something.

img_4162.jpgimg_4059.jpgAnyway, this is Matt. He’s the only boy in this scenario. He seems pretty fearless, and after you’ve lived with all girls, you’d be fearless too. Actually, is that second picture Lexi? Oh my god, who knows. KITTENS.

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god, foster mom
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GOD, FOSTER MOM

Anyway, pretty much all I want to do is look at kittens.

Today, when I went in there to feed the mom cat, all four kittens came tearing out the door at once. I was literally herding cats.

Steely Dan, who had some suspicions already, happened to be looming largely in the hall when it happened.

He was not amused.

Oh, he’ll come around. I’m not worried. But right now, he’s huffed outside with his ears back.

Meanwhile, all boopy kittens are safely back in their room, with a pillow in that space under the door, the way I jerry-rigged it when Jodie Foster was here, so they don’t escape.

I will talk at you soon, but meanwhile, won’t you enjoy some vicious cat fights?

Insane cat lady-ly,

Jooon

Going Ham

Remember the guy at work who gave me the eagle calendar last year? I’m tryina find a picture of him but OH MY GOD with this slow computer, which is my other news.

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Here he is. He’s had several funny lines on this here not-blog through the years, and anyway my point is, he brings the same lunch every day.

EVERY

DAY.

Peanut butter on whole wheat, a baggie of tortilla chips, an apple, and a depressing glass of water. “I don’t know why you say my glass of water is depressing,” he said when I was inevitably remarking on it.

It’s depressing because it’s a glass, see-through John Deere mug, which should be used for coffee, that he’s using for water. Drinking water out of a mug says, “I have no available dishes.” Drinking water out of a mug says you’re clinically depressed, or 20 and in your first apartment.

Which he is not. My coworker is far from clinically depressed. Or in his first apartment, as he is elderly like me. He just likes a routine.

Anyway, the other day I had a work question for him, but there was that sad mug o’water. “I hate to bother you during your exotic lunch…” I began. And really how much did I hate to bother him, since I was forging ahead with my query.

“Actually, today I have a ham sandwich,” he announced.

What the Mama Cass?

“Every so often I’ll bring in a ham sandwich instead. My kids call it ‘Going Ham.’ ”

Going Ham.

And that is why I like my workplace.

Also, he wandered over to my desk yesterday to say that he “sort of” reads my blog, but lurks on it just enough that he didn’t feel justified commenting yesterday. “Besides, me commenting defeats the very notion of lurking.”

Speaking of yesterday, let’s discuss a few things regarding our discussion at hand. [Arranges her papers like Walter Cronkite]

At the bottom of every post are little icons. Those are so you can share my brilliance with your friends. Ima go out on a limb and assume you have friends.

Someone said my blog was “hard to share” so I wanted to point those out.

Also, I’ve yet to go to my survey from yesterday about how to arrange the comments (scroll down; it’s under this post) but last I looked you seemed to be voting for the comments to be in thread form, which means you can reply to someone, and that reply will be tucked up under that person’s comment.

The other option was to just splat them out there chronologically, which some like because then if they return that day, they don’t have to scroll up and down to see all the new comments.

But PLEASE NOTE, when you leave a comment, there is a box you can check so that if you want, you can get all the comments delivered to you via email. So you can read them all that way if you want eleventy emails.

And finally, at the bottom right of each post you can click “Follow,” and you can get emails that tell you I’ve blogged, so you don’t have to come looking for me, ever.

That is all. And that’s the news today, Wednesday, December 20, 2017.

Except there’s other news. But that was the news re my stupid blog.

The other news is that I had to buy a new goddamn computer. Like, I started this post right at 8:00, and if you look up and see that photo of my coworker? Getting to Safari, getting to this website, starting a post, then going to Google to find his photo?

Took until 8:13. I timed it.

It’s not even fun to write anymore, because this machine just GROANS along, and spools, and doesn’t move, and sometimes I wrote a particularly pithy line, if you ask me, and I look up and it didn’t type. It just didn’t type! Because the machine hasn’t caught up with me yet. Which is the title of my new book.

Heh.

Anyway, this computer is more than six years old, and I hope you all remember my excitement when I got it, and how delighted I was to use the webcam. Let me take 49 minutes out of my morning to fire up the webcam and find the very first picture I took on here…

Photo on 9-24-11 at 4.48 PM #3Oh, June.

This photo is dated 9/24/11 at 4:48 p.m. There are two videos that precede this photo because I didn’t know I was making a video rather than a picture, but god help me if I try to upload a video. I’ll miss my whole day of work, waiting.

Anyway, the convenient part about Apple is I was able to call them and get pretty much the same computer, just the 2017 version, delivered right to my workplace next week. It’ll be faster, but the same size. Which is what she said.

Did I WANT to spend my hard-earned cash on a new computer? I did not. But I literally could not really use this one any longer, and careful readers will note that week back in the early fall when AppleCare and I spent forever trying to get this old lady speeded up.

It didn’t much work.

Also, I traded this one in. So.

IMG_2903.jpgToday at noon I take everyone’s favorite foster sister back to the shelter to get her booster shot and to have her cold checked out. You can see it has not slowed her asshole level down even a bit.

IMG_E2928.jpgAlso, someone is quite pleased to have a kitten friend.

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it not tru. steeeleee dan haf dignitee.

I leave you with today’s lip color: Broadest Berry. Lu resent.

IMG_2941.jpgToday we have a Christmas party for the creative team, and then after I am screaming over to my friend The Other Copy Editor’s B&B because last week she was too busy to talk to me and allegedly this week there will be time for us to make out.

Then allegedly I am getting up for 6 a.m. Pure Barre tomorrow, and “allegedly” is a big word with me today.

After Pure Barre, I am totally Going Ham.

Luff,

Juan

P.S. Two things that are already irking me: Your comment yesterday did not “disappear.” The comments only go to 100, then you have to click “See older” or whatever it says, at the top of the comments.

At the top of my not-blog I’ve changed the photo. Earlier, the tag line below referenced my Aunt Kathy, whom you’ve all seen a millioon times (go look at Thanksgiving, for example). She was having trouble finding this page so it was just a joke.

However, that woman in the photo is clearly not her. I changed the tag line today so as not to keep getting OH MY GOD IS THAT AUNT KATHY? WHO SUDDENLY IS AN OLD LADY IN A 1957 PHOTO BUT STILL A VIABLE NOT-ANCIENT PERSON TODAY? WE JUST SAW HER THANKSGIVING BUT IS THAT SOMEHOW HER IN THAT 60-YEAR-OLD PHOTO? So. Yeah.

 

 

IRL

I feel like no one reads me anymore.

I mean, “no one” is a stretch, but there are definitely fewer people around here, at least comment-wise. I know back in this not-blog’s heyday, like 2011-2012-ish, I’d get hundreds of comments, and around 2,000 readers a day.

But then sitemeter died, and we in the not-blogging world were all left bereft, because that thing was excellent. It told you how many people were on right then, it used individual IP addresses with cities, so I saw when Ned’s ex-girlfriend started reading me. I saw when NED was reading me.

It was a great stalking-who-stalks-me technique. But it died. And I’ve been without sitemeter for at least a year.

Then this year I switched over to WordPress, PressingWords, and the meter is either a lot more sensitive (like, if you look at me twice in one day, it knows your IP address and won’t count you as two readers) or else no one likes me anymore.

What do you think it is? Is it that no one blogs anymore, so they don’t come over here in hopes I come over there? Is it boring that I’m single and not all that ready to mingle? What gives, do you think?

This also leads me to to ask this question: If you know me  in real life, leave a comment today. I mean, really, leave a comment. You don’t have to leave an email address to leave a comment even though it says to.

I was wondering who, in real life, still reads me. Because when you write about your everyday life every day, it can be awkward with people who really know you.

Like, you meet up with a person and start telling one of your better stories, and you get the sense they want you to wrap it up because they’ve already read this. “Oh, did you read about this already?”

“Yeah.”

But see, how do you know? You can’t ask every person, “Do you read my stupid blog?” cause that seems like pressure.

But then, like, you’re talking to your grandmother or someone and they say, “Oh, you and Ned broke up?”

Or, “You have a dog?”

And it’s like, DO YOU NEVER READ ME OH MY GOD.

So, two things: Why is my blog boring now, or else why are my numbers down, and (2), if you know me, please really leave me a comment today. You don’t have to say your name, just how we know each other.

“We had a one-night-stand at Michigan State, June.” That sort of thing.

Meanwhile. And don’t you hate people who say, “Meanwhile, back at the ranch.” Oh, har har har. HARRRRR de HAR.

Meanwhile, back at my ranch-style house…IMG_2879.jpgI present you with Mega Melon. My lipstick, and also m’boobs.

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not in MUUUUUD

I was taking a selfie, when a little orange sprite caught my eye. She really is a little sprite. So full of the vim. Look at her already learning how to reject my advances.

I am the Harvey Weinstein of kitten.

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Every cat. Always, with that window to the kitchen.
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Where is the kitten? Has anyone seen the kitten?
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THERE she is! Say, guess who’s an asshole around kittens?

IMG_2859.JPGAnd because we don’t talk about animals enough here, someone else brought her dog to work. Nothing says “dedicated to her work June” more than someone trotting an animal past me.

BLUE EYE AND BROWN EYE!!!

IMG_2862.jpgI love you so BAD.

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Also, Faithful Reader BamaCarol sent me a leopard coat that happened to be on June Gardens’ Amazon Wishlist! Oh my god, I was so excited. I didn’t think anyone would actually GET it for me. It was a pipe dream! I was dreaming of pipes.

IMG_2871.jpgI better go. Last night, I closed myself in the bedroom to do my freelance work and hang with Jodie Foster, and maybe an hour in I thought, Hey, where IS that kitten, anyway?

She’d slipped under the door again. Was hanging with the big pets. I WAS IN THERE ALONE.

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heeee. jodeeee foster kind of a dik.

Talk to you later. And don’t forget to comment if you actually know me.

Really, how well can you know another person?

Deeply,

Juan

What is wrong with this emu?

It was inevitable, I suppose, that during a pertinent conversation with my friend Hamlet, in which we were extolling Patty and Selma from The Simpsons,

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that I was struck by HOW MAGNIFICENT it would be to name cats Patty and Selma. It’s these epiphanies that make me say, Well, I could just jaunt off to the pound, there, get a couple orange cats, call ’em Patty and Selma, because that’s just too good to pass up.

I didn’t do it. This is not a Very Special Book of June, where I get new pets.

Well. A Relatively Regular Book of June, where I get new pets.

IMG_E1134.JPGI did, however, just go ahead and have the scheduled pets, which normally, with my advanced maturity, I’d say isn’t nearly as exciting. But with Steely Dan, it’s always exciting.

You know what I like about him, other than his lust for life? He’s a regular Vincent Cat Gogh. I also like how normally he adores Edsel–I mean, the very first time I let whining, eager Edsel into the room to meet his kitten self, SD was appalled. He puffed all up, all four inches of him, and arched dramatically and so on. But about 47 seconds later he was cool with Edsel, and now he’s forever trying to get Eds to play (after that one claw-in-the-snout incident, that’s been less likely of an event) or standing on his back legs to rub his snout on Edsel’s.

But the times that dog gets, oh, emo, the times the dog emotes, which is often, Steely Dan cannot bear it. If Edsel is ever simpering and whining and acting the fool, SD gets up high somewhere–the sink, a counter–and makes sure to smack old touchy-feely EST feeling-his-feelings Edsel, terrectly on the noggin.

This I like about Steely Dan. It’s how we all feel when Edsel works on that Academy Award.

Anyway. M’weekend.

Oh, one more thing. (GOD, June.) Did you ever notice the iPhone emoji for “dog” looks like Edsel? Go ahead. I’ll wait.

FRIDAY

IMG_E1050.JPGAfter work, a bunch of us went to happy hour, because it was someone’s last day. We go to this place near work, and the weather was, in fact, perfect for it, but the sun. That sun. Did you ever notice it? Go look outside. I’ll wait. I know I was already supposed to wait for you to type “dog” into your phone, but.

This time of year, that first hour of happy hour, and I like how I miss the concept, is ALL SUN ALL THE TIME. It’s Barhenge.

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See. I just invented a Stongehenge-themed bar in my mind, but here one already is. Everything’s already been done.

The point is, as usual, everyone went home or off to, oh, eat, and I was the last person to leave, which is how it always works when I attend a happy “hour.” I had only one drink–I was just busy yammering to people. Also, there was a Great Pyrenees there. Of course I petted it. What are you, new?

Happy hour. It’s an hour on Mercury.

Also, science. I have no idea if time is slower on Mercury. I just kind of assumed. All that science, I don’t understand. Plus, as we know, science isn’t real anyway. Fake news.

SATURDAY

Spent way too much time following old Lust for Life around, trying to capture him on film, and by the way, he abhors the camera. Starts whipping his tail as soon as I aim the phone at him. The OTHER pets, the good pets, look right at me, at this point, and then when I’m somewhere trying to photograph someone else’s pet, as I am wont to do, I get so annoyed that they don’t automatically look at me when I point the camera. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS EMU?

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Finally, I did an hour of Callenetics, because it’s 1986 up in here. I was tired of Tracy Anderson, and I was getting injuries, so I ordered me up that old …tape, even though now it’s a DVD, but come on.

Anyway, I just loved it. I love that lady, who was clearly some rich person who thought she was a huge adventurer, what with spending the family money to gallivant all over yonder, and eventually decided to teach exercise classes, which is another “family money” kind of job.

You should read her Wikipedia page. Oh my god. It’s not even a humble brag. It’s just a brag brag. It’s Fort Bragg. Just Google Callan Pinckney. Which by the way, she made up. That name, I mean. It’s not nearly as good of a name as Patty or Selma.

See. I’m doing the thing where I’m trying to tell you about three days and I’m taking for fucking ever. Let’s proceed.

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In the afternoon, I stampeded to the movies to see The Other Side of the Mountain or whatever it’s called, the one that gives you yet another clue that you should never take public transportation with Kate Winslett.

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Does it irk you when you see a photo here that I’ve already put on social media? Are you all GOD, June? Are you always all GOD, June?

I attended said film with my friend The Poet and her friend The Prose, and hang on a minute while I gaze at myself fondly for calling him The Prose.

IMG_1089.jpgThe movie was just okay. There was a dog in it and a hot man of color with a British accent, and we get to see him having sex–the man, not the dog–so two cougars up.

Then I screamed to the damn dance store, of which this town has one, to buy ballet slippers for tonight’s dance class, and they close AT FOUR on Saturdays.

At four. On a Saturday. Four. Yeah. Those nutcrackers.

So instead, I shopped for my Halloween costume, then screamed home and got ready for a partayyy, in which I brought helpful cheese and crackers.

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Yeah, thanks for the…cheese and crackers. Thank god you’re here.

IMG_1108.jpgOne of my coworkers had a little get-together, and the food was delicious, and it was perfect weather for a fire pit, and it turns out, all I really ever want to do is drink around a fire pit. That’s all I ask for in a fall evening.

IMG_E1102 2.JPGAlso, I like the people I work with. I’m like a chubby Mary Richards.

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Fairly drained June, midnight Saturday

SUNDAY (Oh thank god. Will she ever stop?)

I wanted to do Callenetics again, that’s how much I liked it, but it says to do it twice a week, so. Everything hurt, so I put on my athletic shoes (hahahahahahaha) and headed to this trail. Lactic acid burnoff. I considered taking the Eds, but that trail is always sick with dogs, and guess whose miracle cure is wearing off. Guess who decided to put the aggression back in leash aggression.

I’m so glad I didn’t take him, because this asshole came up the trail with her two white fluffy dogs OFF LEASH, one in a pink harness and one is a blue harness (okay, that part was cute), and they ran right up to me and climbed up my leg. By the time that woman sauntered to us, Edsel would have digested and passed her flufferkins, her furbabies, her insert whatever annoying thing she inevitably calls them.

“I just can’t bear to put them on leashes,” she laughed, as she approached me petting her dogs. Oh, how I wanted to tell her. You have no idea. You think you can’t bear to leash them? How would you have felt about finally strolling up to a shaggy Civil War scene? To the remains of the fluff? Cause that’s what woulda happened had I been here with my leashed, legal dog. Barely legal, all nude dog.

I walked for an hour and a half, and stopped at the little lake, there, watched turtles, and then it was time for therapy!

Therapy? June? What with your healthy love relationships? Why waste your money?

And yes, she has hours on Sunday, and who am I to argue with a therapist who might be a workaholic? This is, in fact, the second therapist I’ve had who works Sundays; the last was in LA. They probably have to work seven days, like ranchers in Oklahoma or lobstermen in Maine.

IMG_1140.jpgThe office is downtown, which is convenient, because I hear downtown, all the old men have been driven crazy.

And that was the day I stopped reading June.

IMG_E1141.JPGI like going downtown, even though I was once again approached by someone who was “out of gas” on his “second day in Greensboro,” and should I just keep five dollars in my wallet? Is that the most humane way to deal with this? What if the broken old man who approaches me is finally Jesus and I blow it by walking by indifferently?

Or what if he’s just a broken man who needs help and I walk by indifferently? The problem is, I’m also a little scared, so I don’t want to stay long. So it’s this push/pull of help a person/save one’s ass from mugging.

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Sunday version of fairly drained June. Now with white guilt!

So that sums it up. Tonight I dance. Just a Steeltown girl on a Saturday night. Just an aging girl on a Monday night, lookin’ for the fight of her life. Or dancing shoes at her lunch hour.

She has danced into the danger zone when the dancer becomes the dance. Or sciatica.

Head up, young person.

June

Because we need more oompah bands.

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a powst about edzul?!

It’s raining today; at the most, it’s going to be 64 degrees. They also call that “the high.” Am become familiar with language of peeple.

Anyway, after Edsel’s a.m. constitutional, and by “constitutional” I mean he peed, he stampeded back inside, as he does. “Edsel, wait,” I said, and he screeched to a halt. That’s one good thing about Edsel. He usually listens to you. “Let me wipe your feets,” I said, and yes, I said “feets.”

Incidentally, who’s delighted she mentioned his scratching trouble yesterday? Hello, 200 pieces of advice.

It’s okay. We’ve been to the vet. Thrice. We’re working on it. Also, I can Google with the best of them. Oooo, also? I finally figured out you can SHUT DOWN MESSENGER on Facebook! You can just shut it off! No more fruitlessly saying, “Can everyone just not message me?” Because I shut if off!

Oh, the freedom. Who even knew that was a thing? I live and breathe this Philadelphia freedom.

I’m free, to do what I want, any old time.

I’m free! Free falling!

If I could get off the Freedom Trail here, the point of my story is, I have a dog towel in this back room, a towel that is allegedly just for dog feets. I have no idea why, other than that meant they got to charge me more. They charged me an arm and a feets.

I also have a for-dogs absorbing mat right at the back door, then another “for dogs” smaller rug at the next threshold, accompanying this alleged dog towel. They’ve formed an oompah band. You’d think my house would be devoid of the muddy prints. The feets prints.

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stop saying. that not meen what you think it meen.

Oh, look. There’s, like, feets prints between the two rugs. Yeah. Hello, luck.

OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So I said, “Hang on, Edsel, let me wipe your muddy feets.” And I turned to get the towel, and when I came back, Edsel was holding up his foot. His one feets.

HOW CUTE IS THAT?

That story took 350 words. If a man told it–

a man would never tell it.

img_0927.jpgIn other news, this above about sums up m’weekend. Am vaguely depressed, and by “vaguely” I mean I’m depressed. Maybe I’m not depressed so much as I am just sad. And a little panicky.

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

See. Why does my brain have to have Air Supply lyrics in it? No one needs that. Not even the fine members of Air Supply. Ask me about algebra, though. My brain tossed that right out, like a brown avocado.

I realize there is a good chance, maybe an 80% chance, that I will be alone for the rest of my life. I mean, (a), I’m old. And (2), any man who’s single at my age is likely damaged. A thing I have learned the hard way. I’m not saying I’m not damaged. Look at me. But I’m saying I may be doomed.

This makes me sad, although truth be told, usually when I’m in a long-term relationship, I get annoyed with the person, anyway. So maybe I’ll be happier, once I accept this lot in life. But I feel like I’ve failed in some way. Like I’m a spare button that you keep just in case, but really you’re all, Why do I have this button? It goes to nothing.

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mom be edsel spare buddon
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no, seeeruslee

So I spent most of the weekend here, other than yesterday’s venture downtown, driving all the old men–you know what? I’ll stop. I will spare you that much, at least.IMG_0967.JPGI mentioned this on Facebook last night, but yesterday when Edsel and I were taking our p.m. constitutional, and by “constitutional” I mean an actual walk, we saw a woman several blocks down, lounging on her hammock. She was reading a book, a cat strewn across her. “That looks lovely,” thought, and I noticed that cat was a handsome all-gray, my type, his tail whipping just the way Steely–

goddammit.

And that is how, once again, I’ve found my cat bonding with another family. Why? He doesn’t even like ME that much. Why suck up to other humans?

Anyway. I just hope this whole sad sad crush of doomed sadness won’t make me a boring blogger. People will start leaving in droves. I already learned the hard way–and why I gotta keep learning the hard way?–that everyone here isn’t reading me with love. I stupidly kind of thought you all were. Like, I kind of thought if you bothered to come here, you kind of liked me.

I mean, I thought that about a man who kept insisting he loved me, too, and look where that got me.

Why are people so goddamn complex?

Ima go get ready for work now, and carry on with my life, such as it is. I leave you with this YouTube veeeedeo, that Marvin hepped me to. He keeps putting up old veeedeos (keep saying that, June) from many years ago (this one is from 1998), and Dear Marvin: Does this piss off your wife? I mean, she seems very cool, but if it were me, I’d be all, “Okay, already, with the memory lane bullshit.”

I’m so glad Marvin married someone I like. Granted, it’d be a lot more fun for me to have a whole new enemy, but I’m glad he found a nice person who is sane. Marvin deserves that.

I’ll talk to you later. Tonight I gotta freelance and maybe lie around listlessly. I’m swamped.

Alone again. Naturally.

Coot

Goodbye, Beige Earl

Dear June:

Tell us about your weekend. We await, riveted. Signed, No one.

FRIDAY

IMG_0449.JPGWe had our work picnic Thursday afternoon, which I realize is not Friday, and I just gave this section a “Friday” subhead and WHAT THE HELL with this blog. The point is, I’m this weird combination of an extroverted introvert, where I sort of dread having to be around people, then I get there and it’s OHMYGOD PEOPLE YAY! and I sort of dash about frenetically visiting this person and that, and then it’s time to go home and I’m drained.

All this to say that Thursday was a lot of socializing, and then Friday I had A Thing. My work sponsors this foundation, and said foundation was having a dinner and a speaker at the country club, and I had to get dressed up and dine at the country club and so forth, and if there’s anything you’re sick of, it’s my “June’s Tales of the Country Club” stories.

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Me–did you know this was me?–after, in my go-to polkadot dress. Sadly, I own three polkadot dresses in varying sleeve lengths. Polkadots are big with me. Less big now that I’m down 10 pounds. Bah. I should stop talking in the caption now.

The man who spoke at our event had been Harvey Milk’s right-hand man, and he was there when Harvey Milk was killed. Then he watched all his friends die of AIDS. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to be a gay man in San Francisco in the ’80s. I mean, it’s close, given all the action I get. Still.

SATURDAY

So that was kind of a sosh two days, and now that I’ve said “sosh” you will wash your hands of me and I understand. I do. I hope one day we can be friends. M’point is, I was all social activites-d out.

IMG_0482.JPGIt was bitty boopy blindy-boo Iris’s 6th birthday Saturday, and if you didn’t wash your hands of me before

Somebody at work put cans of cat food on the “anyone can take it” table, and they were fancy expensive cans of things like buffalo and pheasant. I thought I’d give one to Iris, seeing as most of the time she gets cans of “whatever dregs were in the meat murder room” flavor.

She didn’t even used to EAT cans. I read somewhere that canned food was good for kittens, and I guess that’s true because look how big Steely Dan got, and once she started sniffing cans, and who doesn’t like to do that, she got a hankering. So now I give adult cans to both of them, and I don’t mean that they are somehow dirty.

Lily doesn’t like a can. You’d think she wouldn’t be picky, but she is. She’s like one of those 250-pound women who run marathons and the world judges and it’s like, But you don’t know her.

Anyway, I gave a can of, like, wild boar and sweet potato to Iris, and she was all, “Ware delish dreg fud?” So.

My point is, after I took Iris to Chucky Cheese and she ate the mouse, I spent my Saturday shopping for fabric.

IMG_0511.jpgAs you may already know, because your hand is up in June’s life, I have this old chair that belonged to my grandmother, the one I’ve turned into. It used to be this burgundy Naugahyde, and then my mother owned it and gave it these baby-blue flowers, which Lottie, my dog, fmr, quickly turned into mud flowers, and I act like “mud flowers” is a thing.

The spring and summer I had Lottie was a rainy one, and my yard is aching for grass the way I am for a martini at 8 a.m., so she brought a lot of mud to the chair situation. And one might think one could tell her puppy to just NOT leap onto the chair, but clearly you have not attended June’s Iron Fist of Dog Discipline yet.

I’ve wanted to recover this poor chair for awhile, but it costs, and funds were tight, but then this year I pretty much took on a second job doing freelance work, and you guys are shopping on Amazon by clicking through my not-blog, and boom. All of a sudden, and it really did seem all of a sudden, I got caught up. I’m not a millionaire, but I’m out of credit card debt and I don’t have to live on four dollars till payday anymore.

IMG_0491.JPGSo, in a sense, when I recover this chair, it will be the recovery that you built. And I thank you. Most heartily, I do. My point is, I’d never gone to the fabric store before, and hey, overwhelming.

The good news is they’re moving, so every single piece of fabric was on sale, at least 50% off and some as much as 80% off. I tried to like any of the 80%, but it was all “Brady Bunch Plaid Orange” or “Smells Like Grandma” or “Gay Man in the ’80s” patterns, and I just could not.

The man who owns the store helped me, and was very kind, even though he was having a huge sale on a Saturday and was the only person working there. “If you have a dog, don’t get any silk fabrics,” he advised.

Naturally all I wanted after that were the silk fabrics. It’s like dating. I’m trying hard not to be drawn to another love avoidant, and I start chatting men up and after date number two, they’ll be all, “I really want to live alone for the rest of my life” or “I like to be in touch once every nine days” or “I was married once, for 8 months” and WHY DO I KEEP BEING DRAWN TO IT.

IMG_0487I liked this silk love avoidant flowered pattern in the middle, but who am I, Diana Ross? What do I need with a black flowered chair?

IMG_0488.JPGGreen one’s pretty, and oh, look, silk. This fabric just wants to hang out, nothing serious.

IMG_0493.JPGUltimately, I did get a green pattern, not silk, that wants to take things slow and maybe see other people. I love love love this pattern, and my whole goal while I was shopping was I’d pick a pattern that made me gasp because it was so pretty. This one did. It’ll probably keep texting its ex-girlfriend after we move in together.

IMG_0502.JPGThe rest of the day was pretty quiet, and I binged Leah Reminy’s series exposing the Scientologists. When I lived in LA, I lived near one of the big Scientology buildings, and they bought up pretty much all the apartment buildings on the blocks around their big building, and I’d see people walking to work, from their Scientology apartments to their jobs at the Scientology building, and now I wish I’d have dragged them into my Bug and saved them all.

SUNDAY

They didn’t make Sunday. Because of God. (When Harry Met Sally)

I had to work Sunday, because my work has changed recently and I’m not just on one team anymore; I copy edit for whoever needs it. It’s kind of exciting, but also, each account has different styles and needs and so on, so it’s more intense. I didn’t have to take my work home, but I wanted to so I’d do a good job.

I hope I did a good job. Next thing you’ll hear is me saying, Remember that thing I took home and fucked up?

IMG_9992.JPGMy hallway was always beige, part of the Beige World Fan Club that the previous owner founded and lovingly ran. It was a labor of beige love. A couple weeks ago, I noted that one wall had annoying beige WALLPAPER, not just paint, so I peeled it off and this happened.

My casual peel cost me eleven million dollars in Alf repair (Alf is my ridiculous handyman), and then yesterday I painted that bitch. Goodbye, Beige Earl.

Sometimes I make zero sense.

IMG_0517.JPGSo now it’s Sherwin Williams Quietude, the same color I’m painting my spare bedroom, you know, eventually. I still have to paint the trim in here, and that door that is not at all scuffed up from me throwing shoes down there at the end of the day because God forbid I walk all the way in there and put them in the closet I’m pressed for time, you see.

Also, I did not screw up and get paint on the ceiling. That’s where it’s peeling. Nother effing project.

IMG_0444.JPGI leave you with two things: My coworker Ryan’s dog, whom he brought to the company picnic. Look at his boopy half a face!

IMG_0439.JPGAnd this. When Ned and I broke up, I tried to unfriend all of his friends on Facebook, because I didn’t want any jarring reminders of him. I forgot about one of his friends, though, but that guy put up this old photo of Ned, and here’s the thing.

Usually I’m okay. You know. Ish. Usually I understand that it didn’t work with Ned, and that it’s sad but it’s okay. But then this photo just hit me, hit my stupid newsfeed, and it knocked me over.

I loved him so fiercely. I forget that sometimes. I’d like to forget it permanently. But oh god, did I love him. And it’s not at all sad that I downloaded this photo and kept it.

I guess that’s all my news that’s fit to not print. The chair guy comes next week to take my chair away and recover it, and I need you to know that when I left that store with my big roll of fabric, I said, “Well, I’m gonna bolt.”

No one likes me.

Well, I’m gonna bolt,

Joon

It’s a pretty good crowd for a–oh, shut up.

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steelee disgyze. you cannot see. …pay no attenshun to tale.

Right now, everyone is outside except for old Steely Dickly, here, and it occurs to me that if he were my only pet, I’d be miserable. He’s never HERE. He comes in to eat, maybe sleep with one gray arm strewn across his eyes, chew a few of my beloved clothing items, then leave for 17 hours again.

Also, that brick needs some sort of molding.

Speaking of pets who make me miserable, on Saturday, the trainer came to help me with Edsel.

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Eds not shur

She’d asked me a litany of Qs re Eds and his charming personality before she got here, and then when she arrived, we talked about him some more. When I told her that Tallulah died a year and a half ago, tears pierced the backs of my eyes.

Did you ever have that happen to you? You’re perfectly okay-ish with something, but then you’re in a clinical setting 800 years later and you tell the fact of the matter and it hits you all over again? Anyway that was me Saturday.

“And she was our leader,” I said, hoping I would not need a Kleenex. All the women in my row at work, and I just made it sound like Cell Block H. Who can take a nothing show that lasted maybe one season in 1974 and drag that joke out for 40 years? Anyway all the women in my row at work have colds, and I convinced self I was getting it too, so I purchased an entire SIX-PACK of Kleenex, mostly because it was on special and also at the end of the aisle so I didn’t have to walk very far in, and why so hippy.

“She was our glue,” I told the trainer. “And while she’d BARK at other dogs, like a very angry chesty women such as myself, she’d never actually HURT anyone. And so when any dogs were at our house, no one was ever attacked …UNTIL she was gone.”

The trainer worked with Edsel for awhile and surmised that basically he’s a sweet dog who’s completely unqualified for the position of leader, and I will not make a presidential joke here, and see how mature? She said that while Tallulah was BORN for that position, Edsel’s basically “a huge chicken” who, because he is, overcompensates and blusters and I will continue to not make any references to anyone who may or may not be in the White House.

She said he really has to know he doesn’t have to BE in charge, that I do (I do?), and then she showed me ways to show him that.

Now, here is where I get uncomfortable. Because when I put his little picture on Facebook and a video of him being calm around dogs this weekend, I saw a lot of “tell us EVERYTHING” comments, and then I was all, Oh dear. Do I release the trainer’s state secrets? I mean, I just paid her a shit-ton of money for those.

IMG_0164.JPGSo I’ll …kind of tell you? Will that work?

Okay, so first of all, we yelled at him. I don’t mean I stood over him and told him all the things about this relationship that have bugged me all these years. But when he came near my food, he got a

HEY!!!!

a very sharp

HEY!!!!

that startled him, and let him know he was NOT MY EQUAL (he isn’t?) and that he can’t just, oh, have my yogurt any old time (he can’t?). Oh, he was stunned. He was a letter C, and basically he tried to hide INSIDE one of the wooden chairs.

This lead me to want to go hug him, and tell him he was a good boy, but it turns out that’s how I turned Edsel into the psycho that he is, and I have to be firm with him, yet still love him, and WHO THE HELL KNEW.

So after I’d let him know who’s boss (WHO IS THE BOSS, I THOUGHT IT WAS TONY DANZA), we went on a walk in order to see other dogs and really show Eds the old iron fist.

Lemme tell you something. It was a beautiful Saturday. It was a pretty good crowd for a Saturday, and that lyric has always bothered me, and I realize Billy Joel is a millionaire and I’m not, but what a dumb line. It’s right up there with “Like a knight in shining armor, from a long time ago.” Oh, thanks for the specificity, there, historian.

I mean, WHEN WILL YOU GET A BETTER CROWD AT A PIANO BAR THAN A SATURDAY.

Anyway, my point is, it was a perfect Saturday afternoon in my dogged neighborhood, where every yahoo has a dog, and?

No one. It was like there was a dog strike. We couldn’t FIND a dog. Who did we have to fuck to find a dog around here? I even went to Ava’s house and knocked on the door to see if they’d bring her out, like bait. They weren’t home.

COME ON.

Finally, FINALLY, one woman had an ancient black Lab, and sure enough, Edsel whined like he always does, and the trainer

SNAPPED his two

TWO! (for safety, due to the come-with-me-and-escape-my-collar thing from last time oh my god PTSD)

leashes, said “HEY!”

and even squirted him with a squirt bottle. Oh my god, did he letter C. “Edz haff no idea. Edz totleee sorry. Do Edz need to rite letter to lab? He so will.”

I mean, he got submissive immediately. In the past, when he snarled at dogs, I screamed and yelled, but it never got through to him. I have no idea why.

After that, we headed to the park, in search of more dogs.

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edz gets it! he do!

Y’all. He was  DREAMBOAT. I realize my ass is not what you’d call a dream, but it was a boat. Nor is that SWEATER anything to write home about STEELY DAN GODDAMMIT, but that dog.

IMG_0178.JPGDude, look at that. Two huge dogs over there, and there’s my dog. Oh, just strolling past. IT’S A GODDAMN MIRACLE.

1FA64514-33CD-4F37-AD1B-E4B9A2309E2F.jpgAfterward, he slept for 17 hours.

Yesterday I had to go buy a second leash and Dear Harris Teeter: If you’re thinking, “Oh, we’re good on our supply of leashes for dogs,” you’re deluding yourselves. I had to get him a RED leash, which has zero to do with his whole cool blues and seafoams look he has going with his Gentle Leader and Martingale collar, and I, for one, am aesthetically displeased. But we walked and walked, and for once I was DYING to see a dog, and WHERE THE HELL were all the dogs this weekend?

Finally, we saw his favorite thing, a puppy, and it was DYING to come see us, and Edsel put up his (considerable) ears and I HEY!‘d him, and SNAPPED the leashes and squirted him just once, and?

I was walking a letter C.

The next dogs we saw? Zero incident. And those people know from Edsel and me. I could tell they were surprised. “Is that dog unwell? Did she lobotomize him?”

So that was worth it. If you’re local-ish, I linked to her at the top of this, so if you ask me how to reach her, I will snarl at you like Past Edsel, and I wonder where he got his unpleasant personality.

Love,

June

P.S. I’ve been on Ritalin since Saturday. Having just read this without knowing that, can you tell at all? I can’t tell, but I will say this: RITALIN IS WONDERFUL. Oh my god I’m on the top of the world lookin’ down on creation.

Valley of the Dolls-ly,

June again

Turn around, bright eyes

Look at the sun, up there. Soooooo smug. Oh, Ima shine on you all day. Like I always do. HAH! We, the audience, know better.

Anyway hi. I’m not at work, and I was luxuriating in bed, thinking how lovely it was to, you know, luxuriate in the bed, when I remembered you guys saying, “The first thing I do when I wake up is read Book of June!” “My day isn’t complete without Book of June!” “I keep an asp in my hand, and if Book of June isn’t up, I let it strike me.” Continue reading Turn around, bright eyes