June goes back to work

I gave up having cable TV about a year ago, because basically I was paying $110 a month to watch Bravo. And while I DO miss the old movie channel (a LOT), I kind of like having Amazon Prime and also, way down the rung, Netflix. Continue reading June goes back to work

Spa Day

Thursday, August 3, 2017

6:30 a.m.: Alarm goes off, hit snooze.

6:39: Alarm goes off, hit snooze.

6:48: ”

6:57: “…..

7:33: OH MY GOD. SERIOUSLY? Scream out of bed, dash to shower. Wash hair.

We curly people don’t wash our hair every day. Many of us have a concoction we create in dollar spray bottles purchased at Target. The concoction contains water and lavender oil. Or water and conditioner. Or water and gel. Or water, conditioner, gel and flax seed. Or whiskey.

Some of us have had all of those iterations in our spray bottle from Target. We spray our hair, scrunch it, and go the whole day with our hair looking like shit.

Since I’d had Bernie from Room 222 hair all week, and current references for four decades, yesterday was an actual wash-and-start-over day.

7:45: Put hair in careful microfiber towel for curly people, make coffee, feed animals, go outside with Edsel to watch him pee, as is required by law, lest you deal with a dog who will not go outside ALL DAY, and who hovers near you underbitedly wishing it be tyme to go out and watch Edzul pee alreddy cause he relly haff to go.

7:50 Begin blogging.


9:02: Throw on anything, pop in contacts, pour more coffee, scream out door. Catch reflection in car mirror.

Hair still completely soaked.

9:05–9:11: Drive to work with sunroof open and all windows down. Get to work and glance in mirror.

Hair still completely soaked.

9:12: Turn on computer hurriedly, glance at boss to see if he’s absorbed in work and not noticing lateness (NEWS ALERT: Boss is always absorbed in work), begin five-article project you promised another team that you were supposed to start the day before but were too busy.

9:13: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:14: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:15: PING! New deadline ass–


At work, we have software that, once your part of the task is completed, you check off a box and the next person in line gets an automatic email saying it’s their turn and with a deadline for their part.

Often, for some efficient reason, these deadlines are mythical, so the person before you will then email you personally to say, “Really, this has to be done tomorrow at noon.”

9:16: PING! New deadline assigned.

9:17: PING! New–OH STOP.

Then I started getting the personal emails. Hey, June, don’t make it bad. Take a sad article, and make it better.

In half an hour, I had 11 new assignments. Eleven. I won’t get 11 in a week sometimes. Those were followed up by “These deadlines are legit” emails from the editor before me.

9:30–12:30: Begin work on the 11 new deadlines, ignoring the five articles you still have to do for the other team. Get one done.

12:31: Realize you haven’t peed. In bathroom, glance at self.

Hair is still completely soaked.

12:35–1:30: Drive home, let Edsel out, stand watching Edsel pee as is required by law, realize you’re standing blankly thinking about all that you need to do back at work. Eat something that’s 15 Weight Watchers points (Amy’s Organic 3 Cheese and Kale) because there’s no time to think about thawing a chicken breast right now and that 15-point concoction is right there smiling at you kale-ly from the freezer.

1:37: Return to work, begin slaving on those five articles.

2:09: Email, “Is there any way you can get those articles done early?

2:10: Email from another team: “Did you forget you were going to proof our presentation today?”

3:00: Party for leaving coworker. Everyone heads to conference room to celebrate, except you and your boss. Boss has as much and very likely lots more to do. You sigh, pound your hands on desk, throw head back in annoyance, swear, and at one point, glance over at boss. He’s calmly typing, absorbed in work.

3:11: During yet another dramatic sigh and head throwback, glance down at boss, who is typing and sipping water calmly, like he’s on a meditation retreat or something.


“I internalize everything,” says boss, never looking over at you and your still-soaking-wet hair.

‘That’s why you will have seven heart attacks one day.”

Boss finally looks over. “If you have so much to do, why are you talking to me?”

“What’s the point of you being the only person here if I can’t complain to you?”

3:12: Feel like boss is 100% over you.

4:50 p.m.: Person who asked if you’d do the five articles for her, and then if you can do them early, comes over. She is a good sort of a person. Have commiserative talk about how busy everything is, discuss who has cried at work today, smile wanly at each other and continue.

6:35 p.m.: Four of the five articles are done. Sure, there are the 10 others, and that presentation you forgot and have to do Saturday, but four of the five articles are done.

6:37: See The Poet in parking lot. Have commiserative talk. Realize Poet leaves every day at this time, then goes home and writes deep poetry. Realize Poet never once throws head back dramatically at desk.

6:40: Glance at self in mirror of car. Hair has dried into a ‘do not unlike Gene Wilder’s.

6:52: Plunk bag of carrots next to work computer (see above ref to 15-point kale) and begin freelance work.

8:30: Try to stop freelance work.

8:32: Feel too squirrelly about stopping now, when you could finish this whole project tonight.

8:52: Get email from woman at work who you did four our of five articles for. “I hope people tell you how much you’re appreciated.” Smile warmly at email. Coworker is good soul who never writes things like THANKS!! : ). Coworker writes in English. Coworker is bomb.

10:20: Finish current freelance assignment. Email Tank the Miracle Angel Baby, whom you’re working with on said freelance gig, to tell him. “That’s great!” he writes back. “We have one that’s five times as long as that one that we plan to get to you Tuesday.”

10:21: Mentally count dollars. Mentally tell self that if you can’t drive with broken back, at least you can polish fenders.

10:32: REM.

P.S. I forgot the good news, that at lunch, while I was staring blankly at Edsel, I also called my bank and set up a savings account, an account they will automatically add a certain amount to every 15th and 31st, an account I cannot access with my ATM card. Am practically Suze Orman. Plans to smile manically under corporate haircut and tell you all YOU can’t afford it, appearing forthwith.


Try to guess the swear word I use when I hit Publish then realize I’ve not added a title.

I knew I was going to a party yesterday afternoon, so I planned my ensemble in my mind so that I could do my freelance work in peace. I showered, did my hair, put on my kabuki makeup

Fuck with me and die

Continue reading Try to guess the swear word I use when I hit Publish then realize I’ve not added a title.

Facing June Addiction

Yesterday, I got up early to go to the allergy doctor. I hurried around, and tore over there to be on time, and when I got there, right at 8:00?

They were closed.

I walked up to the door and knocked. No lights on. They'd given me paperwork, so I opened it. "8:00," it read. I left the paperwork in their mailbox in a huff, and went home, annoyed. I could SEE my workplace from the doctor's office, but I'd taken the morning off and goddammit, I was sticking with that. If you don't need half a day off three weeks after Christmas, when do you need half a day off?

At 8:30, I called there, irate. Of course I'd called before then, and got the cloying, "If this is a true medical emergency, please hang up and dial 911."

Why don't you go fuck yourself? I HATE that condescending message. And also, what's with doctor's offices not letting you leave a goddamn message? What is this, 1972?

I also hate, "Please pay close attention, as our prompts have changed." YOUR PROMPTS HAVE NOT FUCKING CHANGED. SHUT UP.

The point is, I finally got someone. "Yes," I said, because I always start these things with"Yes…" I told the woman my woes, and she looked me up on her screen.

Name? I told her.

Date of birth? I told her.


Turns out my appointment is on the 31st. …yeah. I can remember the appointment lady saying, "How about Monday?" I remember it. I don't know what happened, there. And I even said back, "I'll see you Monday, then!" as I left.

Anyway, the good news is that because I had all that extra time yesterday, I found a freelance gig. They are planning to send me work already, a thing that Faithful Reader LaUral had something to do with, so thanks, LaUral.

This is good, because money? I'm hurtin'. During my year abroad I got all my credit cards and my car paid off, which was great, then I got here and Tallulah got sick and my car broke and hello, country song. Plus all my freelance work dried up, and it kind of saddens me that one has to take extra work beyond work to make ends meet these days.

But there it is, now I have some work, so good. Because my tank is on empty and I have $60 till January 31, which by the way is the day of my doctor visit, GOD. Everyone knows that.


In the meantime, my tenant, fmr., came over to work out again, a thing my cat, current, thoroughly enjoyed. That's why the Lily is a tramp.


We had to put old Obssessy McStalkerson, old Fred ASTARE, old Melanie Sniffeth, in the back room, because he is incapable of letting us be while we do Tracy. He down dogs, he rolls around, he sniffs us, he–OH MY GOD EDSEL. So he had a happy new year, in jail. That's only funny if you know It's a Wonderful Life by heart, and who doesn't?

It's nice to have someone hate Tracy with me. "Geez," Tenant, fmr., will say, as Tracy robotically lifts her leg in the same way for the 59th time and looks like she could do 100 more with no problem. Do y'all remember when I made Kaye do Tracy Anderson with me and she almost real-life unfriended me? Anyway, Tenant, fmr., will be here again Wednesday and not the 31st.

I have to go. I had a deal with myself that I'd read 200 books this year, and so far I've read a really dumb Terri McMillan book, a really dumb book I got out of the little take-a-book-leave-a-book library in our park, a book I realized when I was done is a trilogy and now I have to read the rest even though dumb. And now I'm reading a relationship book. I want to keep going on that one this morning before work.

It's really weird. I found the book in my closet–my closet I hardly ever go in. It's a new book, and I'd clearly starting reading it at some point because a page is dog-eared, but I don't remember buying it and I don't remember reading one single word of it.

I even looked in my Amazon emails to see when I got it, and nothing. I showed it to Tenant, fmr., and she didn't leave it here.

Anyway, it's exactly perfect for me. It's exactly the problems I had, and there are ways to fix myself, and I was tempted to contact Ned to say, THIS BOOK IS US. HERE'S HOW WE FIX IT. But (a), we're in a no contact thing for a reason and (2) I don't think he's ready to hear it. Clearly I wasn't when I first got this book. I don't recall one word of it.

It's called Facing Love Addiction, and it talks about the Love Addict/Love Avoidant duo and how they interact with each other, and why they are the way they are and the whole time I was reading it I was all, OH MY GOD! So now I'm at the back of the book where you have to do writing exercises, which I did last night after T,f. left, till my hand hurt.

So, that's exciting. Because between you and me, I was baffled that I could get into something so intense and dramatic and on/off like that. I mean, I did that when I was 22, but I figured well, I'm 22. I had no idea I was capable of something this insane at 51. I thought I'd grown out of acting that way. But clearly I haven't. I have been ashamed, really, of how all-consuming this relationship has been. If I were my friend I'd be so sick of me by now.

So it's good to have hope that I can maybe not do this again.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, or maybe on the 31st.

June gives it up early. When I post this to FB, about 17 of my exes will nod their damn heads.

I'm just now forming the thought that all this time I've been feeding Steely Dan too much. I thought he was much younger, and those oh-so-easy-to-read instructions on his canned food said to feed him three times a day. But now he's seven months old, and I'll bet I don't have to feed him at lunch anymore.


I wanted to capture him looking incredulously at the camera, but instead he's editorializing again, covering my offensive coffee with his judgey kitten foot. Once he learns to talk, he'll probably be all, dat bad for yuu, yuu no. make yuu jittree.

I don't know why petspeak needs to be misspelled. They're not writing it.

Anyway, as you know from your Big Book of June Events, tomorrow is my 10-year anniversary of blogging, and I spent 87 hours worrying about which photos to put in my 10-year video, cause I'd be all, yeah, it's good, but is it TEN YEARS good. And then I realized there were about 15 pets to cover and who should I leave out and basically the whole thing was hard. Life is hard. The point is, I finally finished it and got it on YouTube only to break up with Ned and have all the photos of him piss me off now, but even still, the damn thing is a retrospective of my past 10 years and he's in my last five years, so.

THE POINT IS, you guys started LOOKING for it. A coworker, who's read me for like four weeks and doesn't know any of the players, was even all, "I went on YouTube to try to see that video early and I can't find it."


So yesterday I put it on Facebook, but here it is for the rest of us. Videovus, for the rest of us. You know I have no idea what that's from? I know everyone goes on about it and laughs and high fives, but I am clueless. It must be a show I never cared about, like that one show about radio with Maura Tierney or the one about people working in cubicles where Roy and Jim or Roy and Pam or someone were always about to get married or something.

Oh my god anyway, here, without further ado, a day early because you guys are terrible, is my video in celebration of 10 years of blogging!

Taa-daaaa! I love that the shot they used, here, is Dick Whitman's mom. Cutest thing, ever. Plus I look good. That's what matters. I remember this is before I met Ned, and I was dating a different boy, and that was the first day we ever Did It.

What's with my eyebrows in that photo?

Oh! And speaking of eyebrows, I think Ima make it till payday!! On Monday, I had $21 to last till Thursday, and then I went to see It's a Wonderful Life at my old theater because it's what I do, so with the ticket and parking I had $10 left, but here it is Wednesday and that $10 is in tact and I have fish and spaghetti and you know what this is like? Remember in It's a Wonderful Life when they had the two single dollars left at 6 p.m.? That's what it's like.

A few of you sent me donations to celebrate my anniversary of bothering you for 10 years, and that's exciting and very kind! It will be here in a few days and then I will be high on the hog, man! And I know you guys talked in the comments about everyone sending me 10 dollars for 10 years, but I know it's most expensive-ist time of the damn year, and I do not expect that at all. Just that you're reading me is nice. I mean, who wants to read my crap every day? You do.

I didn't want to go off on this tangent. Want to save it for tomorrow. So I will.


Paula H&B, faithful reader, found the most ridiculously wonderful collection of middle-aged women in mid-century standing next to ridiculous Christmas trees, and I am in love. I am obsessed. I cannot get enough of these photos. They're my favorite things ever.

You know how I get about old photos.

I finished my cards last night, no thanks to my roommates.


The entire time was me moving cat bodies. Oh! And here's Austere Deer card. Chris and Lilly, don't look.


Do you really believe the "joyful" new year part? Cause those cards are staring at you in Personal Growth. (It's a When Harry Met Sally line. Sue me.) Those cards are the cards that insist you put on sunscreen before you can run out to the water. Those cards are first in line for flu shots. Those cards would never be 51 and living on $10 all week.

Also, I take issue with those cards capitalizing "New Year" the way it's used.

I'd better get in the shower, and I want you to–



He's up there eatin' the big cats' food. That jerk. Look at his little back footie, though.

IMG_4067 IMG_4061
Why do we have to have all these cats? [Looks behind her at whomever's responsible.]


Talk at you tomorrow. As I have done almost every day for the last 10 damn years.



P.S. Look up there at my goddamn nose. Son of a BITCH I hate my nose.

“I Supervised June.” A scathing guest post by my boss, fmr.

When I first became June’s boss, she brought up the idea of me writing a guest post for her blog—a whole “I Supervised June” thing. I said sure. Now I’m not her boss, and I have time to write the post. Those two things are not related.

I think June expects me to tell you all what a challenging person she is to manage. I think she expects me to say:

That she’s a drama queen. Not really. I’ve managed rafts of interns and no person is as much a drama queen as a college senior.

That she’s got bizarre taste in desk décor. You all may have seen the “It’s not mean if it’s hilarious” cross stitch she has and the like. Again not really the bizarrest, in my experience. One of my mentors had a freeze-dried octopus in a plastic bag pinned to his office bulletin board—for years. I think he snuck it through customs on his way back from Malaysia. He also had a model airplane made from a deer mandible that he got on a trip to South America. The teeth were still attached.

That she never listens to what I asked her to do. In truth, I think she’s psychic. I have a belief that it takes three things to do well here at our company: Make friends in other departments, have a creative outlet other than what you write and edit here, and be vocal when you’ve got too much to do. I didn’t have to tell her any of that when I became her boss: June, as you all well know, has plenty of friends at work, has a creative outlet that she works on daily, and if I ever had missed that she was overcommitted at work because I was, too, I could just check the blog and catch up.

That she takes too much time off. Nope. See above on college interns. Hire them their final semester, and they’ll leave for spring break, midterms, commencement rehearsal, parents’ weekend, senior class birdwatching and teambuilding, Greek senior beach bonding and then ask for more time so they can actually study and pass their finals.

That I roll my eyes every time she has a migraine. Actually, I’m very sympathetic. I used to get them almost every week in my 20s. The worst one I had, I thought that the side of my face was melting off. I’ve got them controlled now, but I would drive her home if she had one and needed to leave the office midday.

That I think she’s weird for blogging. Well…. I do think that I couldn’t possibly blog about losing a pet or train sex with Ned (I’m putting myself in her shoes; I never had any sex with Ned and in fact have never met him), but I do enjoy reading her blog very much. I had no idea how the Naughty Professor (who started working at our company before I did) found love again after he lost his longtime partner until I read that post. And I have known Griff since 1998, and almost hyperventilated when I binge read his/June’s Twitter feed for the first time. (*Fun fact: Griff is squeamish. I once unintentionally made him turn white when he overheard me telling a coworker about a bad Red Cross blood donation experience.)

So, sorry, June. She and I actually have a lot in common. We’re both Midwesterners and I make her do the Michigan hand map thing sometimes. We both think Meyers Briggs is awesome and explains much of how the world works. We have some of the same shoes and why I’ve never seen her at DSW at the same time as I’m there, it has to be because I was in the clearance section while she was checking out and we just missed one another. We both like this corner bar in town that has blackened green beans. I don’t know if she likes their green beans, but she should. We both know and think her neighbor Peg is awesome; Peg and I used to go to the same church and worked on a big mission trip fundraising silent auction for several years together. We both think there is no frigate like a book. We both adore The Poet; she set me and my husband up on a blind date.

We have a lot that we’re not alike about, too. I’m very allergic to cats, I have kids, I think California is evil (ok, not evil, but I’ve never had that pull to it that so many other people do) and she’s got a zippier car (I heart my minivan).  

Anyway. That’s what it’s like to be June’s boss.

Nah nah nah nah

My friend Paula sent me this, and there is just…yeah, I can't begin.


Okay, no, I really can begin. The filthy hippie, that dynamo behind them clapping her hands, THAT WOMAN'S SWEATER, the dummy! Oh, god, the dummy. The choreography.

God, 1972 was a weird time.

Anyway. Another work week is upon us, and yay. Although, really, I worked all weekend, if you consider watching Game of Thrones till your hand gets chopped off and you wear it around your neck work. And who doesn't?

I like it at my job, so going to work is not a dreadful proposition for me. Of course, I SAY that and now today will be awful. But what about you? Do you hate it? Are you stuck there? Why? Or are you jobless and want to bitch slap anyone who even HAS a job? I remember that feeling when I was laid off. Twice in two years. That horrible nagging scary no-money feeling. Oy.

But for me, I've had this job now for a few years, and I'm grateful for it, and even better, I like it. Especially now that my job has changed. It was supposed to be a relatively small change, but so far it's dramatically different and it's great. For me. The Other Copy Editor probably wants to punch me clean in the face.

Today I'm meeting with a friend after work, and tomorrow I have my student, then Wednesday I have my therapist who has had DREADFUL luck lately, and I wish I could just tell you all about the horrible things that've happened to my therapist, because you'd roll back from the desk and say, "Oh my GOD!" but of course I can't do that. You know me and my decorum. I'm here. I'm decorum-y. Get used to it.

I think it's possible that I have nothing to do on Thursday, and I will probably wander from room to room, lost and afraid. Then Friday one of my friends is having a birthday party and there's my week.

I say that like thearpy-ing me isn't dreadful luck as it is. Maybe one day she can write a tell-all book. I Therapied June. By Beleaguered Therapist Susan Johnson.

Her name isn't remotely Susan Johnson. Susan Johnson is Dudley Moore's awful girlfriend in Arthur. "She's quite beautiful when the light hits her just so. Of course, you can't always depend on that light."

All right, I have to get in the shower. I am taking Woof and Mouth Disease to dog day care today, a thing I stupidly mentioned first thing, and as I write this, Edsel has his chin on my lap and is wriggling. we go now? how bout now? Do now be good time?

Last night, Tallulah was illegally in the living room, with her front legs in my lap, and I was scritching her head. It was getting late, and I said, "Tallulah, I think it's time for bed." I expected her to get off me and galumph heavily to her dog bed, but instead she looked at me for a long time, and turned around and went straight up the stairs to our old bed.

And that is how Talu and I slept in my old bed together last night. She had two different woof dreams, where I had to pet her to get her quiet. buf! buf buf buf! she'd say, sort of under her breath. buf buf BUF. She was all jerky, too, like she was really giving someone the business, with the barking and the getting up on her hind-ies. feer lu now. she on hind legses. lu come at you wif three feets of terrur. and three feets of terrier.

She's probably taller than three feet when she's on her hind legs, right? Now I gotta get the tape measure when Ned gets home.

When Ned was a kid, he and his brothers would take his poor mom's yardstick and do whatever boys do with yardsticks. Beat each other, whatever. The point is, they were forever breaking her yardsticks, and she knitted or crocheted or maybe both, and apparently one needs measuring tools for these endeavors.

One day she drove up and opened the car door. Everyone was in the driveway. "Here is my new yardstick," she announced. "This is my yardstick. It is not for fighting with, or playing with, or for using in any way. You are not to touch this yardstick, is that understood?"

And with that, she climbed out of the car, and the yardstick caught on the door frame and snapped in two.

I am so glad I never had boys.

Okay, I am really going. Oh! (Somebody get the sheep hook.) Here's my latest Purple Clover.