Bye Bye, Pie!

Cuff and Link

After perusing your comments from the what-bad-food-do-you-like post, I was relieved to see that so many of you like to eat horrific things. I'd hate to be alone in my poor diet.

Yesterday I left here early, which you can imagine is my strong suit, as I am such a morning person. Embracing the morning. The way one would embrace a rabid opossum. But I did, I left early, and screamed on over to the car repair place, which someone at work recommended because the guy is honest. I got my car fixed by this guy six months ago and he gave me a good deal on what was wrong with my car. He'd even called me at work and said, "We can get away with not whoo-dee-whooing the blee de blee, if you want, save you some cash. Okay?" I liked that about him.

So I dropped my car off yesterday, so he could put my sideview mirrors back on. Ned was already there waiting for me, seeing as I was five minutes late and who do you think was likely delighted with me, because he wasn't expected at WORK or anything. But he acted like my lateness was just fine, and drove me to work.

Ned's shoulder has been smarting for several days now. He assumed he did it lifting weights, and the answer to that is stop lifting effing weights. My father has something he lives by called the No-Maintence Policy, and dad is 942 and fit as a fiddle. You just wanna smack him. (Actually his birthday was day before yesterday, and he turned 67. Which suddenly doesn't seem very old.) (Which is depressing.)

But really. He'll eat all those things you guys listed yesterday IN ONE DAY, and lie around and get zero exercise, and the doctor is always all, "You're perfect!" And then there'll be a report about how Vitamin C gives you cancer or whatever, and Dad will say, "See? Zero Maintenance Policy."

Am hoping I have his genes. Seeing as everyone on the other side drops over from the cancer.

So, Ned's shoulder has been hurting, and yesterday on the way to work, he couldn't really even drive using that arm. I mean, he was in agony. "The thing is, it's getting worse," he said. And that is why I spent the whole ride to work telling Ned he should go to the doctor.

Midmorning, he wrote to tell me he'd made an appointment, and it was right next door to where I was having Fun No Car Lunch with all my coworkers. So Ned joined us and got to meet Sarah the Poet, and Deb Downer, and my boss who he'd already met anyway so now they go way back, and my cute young competent coworker who is two decades younger than me and way mature-er, and also this curly-haired woman we just hired who I find fascinating.

Every once in awhile I get a coworker who I get fascinated with, the way Tallulah used to be fascinated with Henry. This one is pretty and she is a singer and she is super cool and I just kind of want to sit at her desk and watch what she does next. Would that seem weird?

I just looked at the post I just linked to about Talu and Hen. My petspeak was hardly down pat.

mom pet tawk do be suk in too thowsind nyn

Anyway, Ned got to meet all my people, and I know he's wanted to meet Sarah the Poet for quite some time, because she is a big fancy poet who has published a ton of books and wins awards out her yang all the time. If she wanted to, she could carry all her awards around like how when one movie wins a ton of Oscars they show some idiot carrying them all. Afterward, Ned and I talked about how if WE were super-successful fancy poets, all we'd ever DO is talk about how super-successful and fancy we are.

"I'd be wearing my Ask Me About My Poetry Awards t-shirt," Ned said.

But in fact she DOESN'T go around talking about how fancy she is, and I think it's because she is totally humiliated because I pointed out to her that her poems don't rhyme. I don't even know how she's won ONE award. Is the thing.

Oh. But Ned. His shoulder. It might be a torn rotator cuff. Which might require surgery. Which makes Ned not pleased.

When he picked me up from work, with his one useless arm, as we drove to pick up my car that cost

SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS,

(yes, you heard me. They TOLD me it'd be three or four hundred, and then it was SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY. I had to put some of it on a credit card and some on my debit card. Because SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DING-DANG DOLLARS) (for SIDEVIEW MIRRORS)

I asked Ned, "So. You gonna go home tonight and raise the roof?" "No," said Ned, as he winced over the steering wheel. "You gonna throw the discus repeatedly, like you like to do?"

"You planning a chicken dance marathon?"

"Did you want to help me paint my ceiling?"

"Hey, listen to what's on! Come on! Y-M-C-A!"

Ned seemed kind of cranky when he dropped me at my car. And I seemed SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS LIGHTER IN MY LOAFERS.

I know that made zero sense. But come ON. GEEZ!

So that summed up my day. I did freelance work last night, which, you know, good. Bring on the supplementary dollars. I proofread about statistics, for a change, and riveting? Woo!

Tonight Ned and I are going to the movies, and I swear to you he plotted out already how he's gonna eat popcorn with his left hand. "You're gonna have to sit to my left this time, and we'll put the popcorn in the middle, and..." He's got it all strategized. ("Strategery.") Poor Ned. Poor cuffy Ned.

I guess I don't have anything else to tell you and am certain you are sad. Because I haven't kept you here hostage for a hundred minutes or anything.

Now go take on the day. (I wish I could tell you how bad I abhor Dr. Laura.)

P.S. Because I haven't said enough already, I am on the American Dingo Club page on Facebook. I just wanted to tell you that so my loserness would be 100% sealed. But also, today they posted a picture of another American Dingo. Whoever wrote me here three years ago to say, "Edsel sure looks like an American Dingo" could not be more righter. Can I say "strategery" again?

 

amerkin dingo do be like edz

Wife of a close friend

I am sitting here waiting for Poland to pay me. Do y'all remember when I did freelance work for Poland? If you don't have your Big Calendar of What June Does, which I guess could also be known as this blog, I did work for them

IN SEPTEMBER

and I am still waiting to be paid. First I had to send $85 to our government to ask for a certificate that says "June is an American" so I won't be charged $29393393 in Polish taxes. It turns out our government totally thought I was an underworld spy and the wife of a close friend.

Wife of a close friend.

And I had to send 27 damn letters and blood samples and take an Are You American? test before they sent that certificate.

Q: What are some geographical facts about other countries?

American Person: ?

Q: What are some historical facts about other countries?

American Person: ?

Q: What are the politics like in other countries?

American Person: ?

Q: Which country is the best?

American Person: AMERICA IS!

Q: Why?

American Person: Because it's so awful everywhere else.

Q: And you know this....how?

American Person: ?

So, I passed that test, and finally in FEBRUARY I sent a certified letter and that fancy documentation to Poland FOR THE SECOND TIME. It all got lost in the mail the first time. Then after 87 back-and-forth emails about my account number and my Switch or Swoosh or Swift or Swiffer or some fancy thing to do international transfers, they told me they sent the money on Monday.

I still don't see it in my account.

And I know this is a legitimate business--they were referred to me by a place I worked before. One of the 78 places I worked before. But I was expecting MANY DOLLARS this week so I did crazy things like buy groceries and WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS THE POLISH MONEYYYYYY?

Insert Polish joke here.

Maybe it'll be here today. Maybe all this complaining has made the universe work in my favor. That's usually how it goes, right?

In other news, I may find out this week whether my fake job is hiring me for reals or not. My boss is meeting with bigwigs to discuss. Further reports as developments warrant. It's been a year and three months since I got laid off, in case you weren't perusing your Big Calendar of What June Does.

I AM TIRED OF THIS.

At least I might possibly HAVE a job, though, right? Some people have been out of work for so long that they've given up. Which is awful.

In the deep show LA Shrinks that I have watched a few times, one of the therapists said to be happy you have to have

• Something to do
• Something to love
• Something to look forward to.

No, you're welcome. I will embroider that on a Bye Bye Pie tuffet if you'd like. Yes, I totally make Bye Bye Pie tuffets. Anyway, if you've just GIVEN UP on finding work, what's there to look forward to? I guess your days of leisure. You can look forward to that.

What the hell is a tuffet? Is it like a footstool?

Okay, I must go. I have to shower and get to work and log onto my bank's website and stare at it, annoyed, till that money gets here. Then I'll SPEND IT LIKE IT'S HOT!

That made no sense. I'll SPEND IT LIKE IT'S A TUFFET!

In which June might have had a taste of chocolate

I survived day two without sugar, except for the part where I had something a...trifle sugary. OKAY SUE ME.

I ate everything right until after work, when I went to the H&R Block, there, to get my taxes done. Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass my taxes are, as a freelancer? I had 1099s from four or five places, and also Miscellaneous whatever-they're-calleds for money I make on the ads here, and then I have to DEDUCT the cost of paying for this site (yes, it does cost) and one room in this house where I do all my work and also the $9 million of medical costs from last year and, ack.

It's not simple, is what I'm saying to you. I remember those heady days of having just one job all year, and I was single, and I filled out one page and boom. Done.

Anyway, I owe $2,000 to our fine government, and I knew I would owe. When you freelance you don't get any money taken out. So I wasn't surprised, just depressed. Even though I am not one of those people who thinks I am the exception, that I don't have to pay my fair share of taxes. I'm, you know, grateful to have roads to drive on and 911 to call when I have a cockroach in my sink.

So right when I was gathering up my things, the accountant said, "Would you like some dark-chocolate-covered pomegranates?"

Well, yes. Yes, I would. I mean, who wouldn't? And God, were they delicious.

So I had three dark chocolates yesterday. "I'm not extending my not-drinking by a day, if you're thinking you're gonna start all over," said cranky Ned. And I'm not. I'm not starting all over.

I also, because I was bored and for the most part sugarless, I looked at all my old OK Cupid emails, from before and when I first met Ned. Oh my GOD there were some scary people writing me. And also some 21-year-olds. What's up, 21-year-olds? Why the nice mother complex? If you're looking for a mom, you've come to the wrong place.

Anyway, one thing that that site does is send you emails with kind of a Brady Bunch grid of nine men. "One of these people rated you four or five stars!" the email reads. Because yes, you ARE able to go on there and rate people and

Dear God,

Could you make it so I never ever have to go on OK Cupid again? Thanks.

Love, June

The point is, back on July 15, 2011, THERE WAS A PICTURE OF NED. Right there! Saying he might have been one of the Brady Bunch grid of men who'd rated me four or five stars! He was the only cute boy in the pictures.

"Did you rate me four or five stars?" I asked Ned, forwarding him the email.

"I like how I'm the Alice of everyone, right there in the middle," he noted, evading the Q about my stars. "Also, what the fuck are you doing on OK Cupid?" he asked.

The point is, it irks me that I was ALERTED TO HIS EXISTENCE six months before I noticed he was on that site. I could have been dating him six months earlier. But I guess I met him when I met him. Maybe I was supposed to have a summer dating the wrong people. Which

Dear God,

Cut it out.

Love, June

"Why didn't you notice me?" Ned groused, mad at me for something I didn't do six months before we ever met. "You clicked on Mrs. Brady, up there, didn't you? He looks intense." Mrs. Brady does look like he's having some deep/murdery thoughts.

I purposely cut out everyone else on this grid, because what if one of your husbands is up there and this becomes a Very Special Lawsuit edition of Bye Bye, Pie, but trust me.

And Greg looks 100% like Samuel L. Jackson.

So there it is. Have you ever wondered about that, about why you met your person when you did? Marvin and I lived IN THE SAME DORM and had several of the same friends, yet we never met all year. We met on the first day of the NEXT year, when he lived in a house. My high school boyfriend, Cardinal, had been a family friend for years. And we didn't meet till 10th grade. Mostly because my family kept showing him my junior high school pictures and I looked like Samuel L. Jackson.

Fate, man. It's a funny thing. As are dark-chocolate-covered pomegranates.

June, out. Of $2,000.

June Hearts Her 4 4ever

So, this occurred.

Y'all. I should not be given nice things. In high school there were these two sisters, and their dad was a dentist, and they told me their mom always said they could have more clothes if they just took care of the clothes they already HAD. Seeing as I had bupkis, it drove me crazy that they clearly did not take care of the clothes they had, because they wore the same things all the time.

"Like, they could get taken to Jacobson's if they'd just HANG UP THEIR CLOTHES," I'd obsess. Jacobson's was a fancy department store in my town. My grandmother used to buy me my clothes there, then when I was a freshwoman or sophomore she got depressed and stopped doing that or anything, really, but sitting around her house listening to Pink Floyd. I am not making that part up.

She also used to watch MTV and liked her some Bon Jovi as the years ticked by, and I could never get her off Bon Jovi and into The Cure. But that's a whole 'nother story. And yes, that IS the grandmother I'm turning into, and am really looking forward to the debilitating depression, and I hope I sigh a lot and act like a jerk who expects everyone to get depressed with me.

But I digress. Let me put on some Pink Floyd and continue.

Sighhh.

See what I did there?

So, I broke my goddamn phone, and careful readers will recall it was A YEAR AND A HALF AGO that I dropped my originally scheduled iPhone into the toilet, because I was cleaning said toilet and emailing Daniel Boone simultaneously, which

Phone Tips From June: is not a good idea.

(I totally would have never hung my clothes up even with the reward of fancy new ones from Jacobson's. I mean, you already knew that, right?)

So then yesterday I smashed my phone to bits, and was all, Ooops, and then was all, Shit. Which

Phone Tips From June: does not help.

I tried to just, you know, MAKE A GO of it the way it was, cracked and shattered JUST LIKE MY SOUL--sighhhhh.

(I got a little black book, with my poems in....God, I do love the Pink Floyd song. GOT A BAG, TOOTHBRUSH AND A COMB IN.)

But whenever I used my finger to scroll across the iPhone screen, I'd get tiny shards of glass embedded in my flesh, which

Anatomy Tips From June: hurts.

"I smashed my phone up by accident," I wrote Ned. "I couldn't remember the password for my home network, and I slammed the phone down in frustration and boom. It just shattered." I said that like all of this happened to me and none of it was my own fault.

"If I had never smashed an inanimate object into breakery before I might use this as a learning moment to caution you re your temper. But oh how I have done the smashing! So I understand," said Ned, who probably never hung up his clothes as a youth.

So after work I went to the Apple store, with my many dollars. My hope was that they could fix the screen, somehow, at least till June when my contract was up.

Have you ever BEEN to the Apple store? This was a Tuesday at 6:00 and you'd think it was Studio 54, and I dearly wish I could think of a hot club from this century ever. I mean, girlfriend was PACKED. Nerdy people, old people, Bianca Jagger on a white horse, you could barely MOVE.

They took my name and told me to wait, and I would have used that time to check my phone but, ow. Checking my phone, turning into a cutter. Suddenly it was all the same.

So I watched people. There was a pudgy guy about my age who kept giving me the old eye. Oh, yes, come on over and get to know June and her Financial Wizardry, over here. June and her Fine Temper. June, Keeper of Nice Things. You won't be sorry.

There were also two low tables filled with kids playing on tablets, and I do not mean, like, Moses' tablets, but rather fancy iPads or whatever. None of these kids were over the age of eight, and yet they were scrolling and pinching and moving objects and I'll bet those tablets are riddled with kid germs. The best part about that is right behind them was a class going on, where about 20 people ALL OVER THE AGE OF 55 were learning HOW to use computers. If I'd...had a phone I'd have taken a picture.

Photography Tips From June: Taking pictures with your phone cuts your finger.

Eventually this kid came over. "Hi, I'm August, your Apple Genius." That's what the sales staff are called, and I do not think that they know everything about Granny Smiths or how to work your core.

Bah.

"Wow, August? That's cool, because my name is June."

"Is it really?"

"No. But I have a blog." I ended up telling him about my blog, and about my tens of readers, and he called the whole damn site up on his tablet, there, and he said, "Wow, so you don't use your real name, even? That's great. That's so stripperesque."

Okay, that's my new favorite thing. I am stripperesque. How soon till I break the pole, do you think?

The GOOD NEWS is that I'm almost done with this story and also that I HAD INSURANCE. Apparently when I bought the SECOND posttoilet iPhone back in 2011, I got the good insurance in case I, oh, you know, broke another phone, by chance. I mean, so not like me. But just in case.

So I did a mature, careful thing, which

Financial Tips From June: Sometimes, surprise yourself by doing mature, careful things.

And so, my friends, I now own an iPHONE FOUR!!!! Because I have the good insurance!!!

Okay, it's not an iPhone 5--who am I, June Rockefeller? But the iPhone 4!!!! Have wanted for so long. Have had the 3 for ages now, and Marie Antoinette called. Literally. The iPhone 3 was super inconvenient, because it texted in Middle English.

TEXT FROM HULK: What's up?

TEXT FROM JUNE:  Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, the droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote...

June's blog. Come for the many many laughs, someday. Stay for the part where June majored in English and whips out The Canterbury Tales.

My POINT is, now I own this:

And yes, my hair IS lovely when I work out at night and sleep on it and get up and blog at you. PAY ATTENTION. Do you like my manly phone cover? I DID have to buy that. But still! I have a 4!  I HAVE A FOURRRRR!

Blog Tips From June: End your post before everyone gets sick of you.

Reality Tips From June: Too late.

Gale and Dale

Did you enjoy the part where I posted at lunch? I got home and had 29494593959 new Christmas cards, but NO REASSURING LETTER from the mammogram place. Yes, they've told me everything's fine, but if they can't get a LETTER IN THE MAIL, how do I know they're reading my slides well?

I called and their records showed they sent the letter December 6. WELL, THEY DIDN'T! So they're sending another.

Then I had to deal with the part where I bounced a check to Time Warner Cable. Dear Time Warner Cable, I got two words for you and they ain't "let's dance." With your effing $50 "returned check fee." Oh, eff off.

The point is, this all resulted in lunch being over before you knew it, and how relaxing. Fortunately, The Poet at work sent me this and now Ima share it with you. You're welcome.

 

June's even dumber day--visually breathtaking

You know, I haven't had a full-time job since January 31 of this year. Have you noticed that? Have you wondered how the Sam Hill I am getting by?

Me, too.

And I'll TELL you how--barely. I've given up luxuries like, you know, food, and I'd have no social life if it weren't for Ned. I've gotten some money from Bank of Family, thank god, and I have completely maxed out my credit cards. You know things are going well when you charge shampoo.

If you wonder if this is stressful, oh, no. Not at all. It does not at all worry me that Ima lose my house, have to give up my pets (NOT TALLULAH) (I will be the homeless person with the dog. That will be me. Just NOT TALLULAH, you hear me?) and move God knows where. It's been fun.

Yesterday I found out The Thing is not gonna happen. Remember there was this great opportunity that really looked like a sure thing, just some papers had to be signed and the deal had to be closed? Yeah. It did not happen. My former workplace wants to keep me on till the end of the year, so at least I knew I had THAT income, but at 25 hours a week, it was not beginning to cover the bills.

So I had all that on my mind yesterday, and $40 in the bank, and my house payment is due today, and as I'm driving home from fake work with that cloud over me,

SCRRRRAAAPPPPPE. SCCCCCRRRAAAPPPE.

My car starts scraping. SCRAPING. Like it was doing its zombie impression for the holiday.

Even more reassuring, on my dashboard, a yellow light came on that looked like my car with a giant screw sticking out of the hatch. That is the only way I can describe the image to you. I went home and Googled Volkswagon warning lights and they didn't even HAVE that one as an option. My car MADE IT UP for the occasion.

As work had been drawing to a close, Ned had called. "You want to see a movie tonight?" he asked. "Yeah, maybe," I said, "but I'm handing out candy right now. Call me after your hair." Ned was getting his hair cut. Getting his 'do on. Going in for extensions.

Yesterday at fake work we had a costume contest for the adults, and later people brought in their kids to get candy.

Here's me at the contest. Everyone else stood around like normal people, but this woman and I grabbed the golf cart. My father always says, "Why stand when you can sit?"

Oh, I WISH I could show you the women who dressed as a party animal, but I don't know her and didn't get permission to show her. She had on a leopard dress, leopard tights, leopard shoes and gloves and a lampshade on her head. LOVE.HER.

I had gotten candy AND Play-Doh, thinking every kid would want the Play-Doh. But no. They STAMPEDED for the candy.

But back to my scrape.

When I got home, I found this hanging off my car.

And that was it. That was when June, here, lost all her dignity and her positive thinking and her this-too-shall-pass mojo. I just sat there on my pavement and cried. Oh, I cried. Because I didn't even have the money to tow that car in. Much less fix it. I was already gonna pay my house payment late. Now this?

This was it. The thing that'd push me over the edge to homeless.

Now, don't get irked at me, but I called Daniel Boone. Because (a) he can fix ANYTHING, and he has in the past fixed things over the phone while he directs me. And he's really clear and knows just exactly what I'm looking at and he's kind of geniusy.

"Okay, first of all, you need to calm down," he said, which always works. Have you ever calmed down when someone tells you to? He made me send a photo of the hangy thing, and said he'd do some Googling and call back.

In the meantime, I called my boss. Do you know what must be fun? Being my boss. I TRIED not to cry, but of course I did, and I said I was going to ask TinaDoris, who lives near me, to take me to work on her lunch hour, and take me home after and would those hours be okay for him.

He assured me it would be okay, and that he himSELF would come get me if needed--I live pretty close. But not walking distance. Besides, I can't walk with this STUPID PLANTAR FASCIITIS.

The thought of that made me cry some more.

I was on a crying JAG, is what I was. Oh, I was at the end of my rope.

Then, the phone rang. It was Ned, finishing up his foil frost. I picked up the phone and all I could do is cry. "I'll be right there," said Ned. And he was. He walked in and pulled a Ferrero Rocher out of his pocket.

Ned might be the perfect man.

In the meantime, D Boone called to say this was a hooodeldy-hoo-doo, and they fall off Volkswagons all the time, and one doesn't really NEED it, and I could just unscrew it or pull it or hit it till it came off. "Really?" I sobbed. "Yes. And you know I will loan you money, June. Don't be ridiculous. Let's just solve this and we'll solve the rest later."

You can say what you want, but Daniel Boone is a good friend.

Here's Ned, still in his work clothes, getting that dang thing off my car. I hope DB is right and I didn't just break my car. But I pretty much trust his knowledge of any fixable thing.

As soon as Ned and I were headed into my house, my phone rang. It was my boss at fake work. "I just found this out, and given your day thought you'd want to know now. We need you to freelance for us full time till the end of the year."

!!!!

"Well. That's...welcome news," I said, trying to not get weepy AGAIN. "It is," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow. I have a cheese emergency." His kid's cheese had slid clean off his pizza. I mean, it DOES suck when that happens.

So this is what I am saying to you. I was saved from the very maws of financial ruin. I mean, I'm still pretty ruined, but at least I'll have enough money now to get by till 2013. And there is a chance they can hire me for real after the first.

Holy cats.

Ned and I did go to the movie, in case you were worried sick. I left candy on the porch for any leftover trick-or-treaters, and we saw this:

 

It's like Baraka, if you saw that. No dialogue or plot, just one beautiful image after another. There was one scene of a sun rising over the mountain. "That looks like a to-go container," I said.

Sometimes I think Ned wonders if I'm worth the effort.

Money can't buy you class

I'm June Gardens, and I'm panicked about money.

Hiiiii, June.

I've been laid off for six months now, and have had lots of work, but in the past month all I've had is one statistics textbook, which you may recall I stampeded right to and did not put off at all. Anyway, that's done and there is no work on the horizon. Have interviewed or taken an editing test at three places, and? Nope. Because I suck.

Today I emailed the HR person at the LAST place that laid me off, and I emailed the HR person at the place that laid me off before that. I also contacted a few people who'd said they needed freelance work done in the past few months and WHERE ARE YOU, people who need freelance work? WHERE ARE YOUUUUUU?

Ack.

My trip is coming up, the one to Hawaii and Los Angeles (I know. I would hate me too. Because it's a FREE TRIP.) and I called Marvin to see if he could dogsit while I am gone. He hemmed and he hawed and he paused and he fretted and finally I snapped, "If you don't do it I can't go on the trip." I mean, dog daycare for that many days would be $500.

Geez.

I mean, did I ask for alimony? Help paying the mortgage? Dog support funds? I did not. This is ALL I ASK FOR.

So the depressing part is Ima have to start applying for jobs out of North Carolina, I think. Which means I'll have to move and I'm (a) upside-down on this house and (8) sad that I'd have to move away from ...friend.

I hate everything.

But hey! In three days I'll be 47!

Okay, I still hate everything. Someone tell me an inspirational story.

P.S. Just noticed I have my underwear on inside-out. Gee, is it Friday the 13th at all?

Your favorite unemployed blogger. Well. Technically Pioneer Woman has no job, right? Crap.

FER SALE

So yeah. Not so much with me having a job anymore.

And I do not want to say anything bad about my workplace, nor do I want you to, because it was strictly financial and they assured me over and over it had nothing to do with me or my performance, and that I could come back should it be possible AND I'D LIKE TO DO THAT.

If you are just getting here or you were just born or something, in which case perhaps you should be napping and not reading this depressing blog, this JUST HAPPENED TO ME. Last year. I had a job at another [insert my field here] and due to the economy and the part where I was last hired I got laid off. Then I found this current (past) job, which is (was) six minutes away, and I loved everyone there, and my boss was cool, and oh crap.

That's all I have to say about that. Maybe they based it on last week's bowling scores.

I got home late yesterday afternoon and immediately signed up for unemployment. And do you know it remembered all my info? Sad. And do you know I remembered my PIN? Similarly sad. Then I wrote my old boss at the place that laid me off last year, and he wrote back immediately and sounded kind of encouraging about being able to find me something, at least freelance work.

Then at the same minute, literally, I got a statistics book to proofread, from that company I always freelance for. That just came by coincidence, so that's a relief. At least I have some money coming from somewhere for this week.

You know what I wish I had done? Is kept that big stash of money I had, what?, two weeks ago. Instead I paid off a credit card, which I know is good, but still. And I'd frown about this but of course the rest of that money I put into my forehead in the form of rat poison.

Hey, maybe that will help me get a job. I'll seem 36 rather than 46. You think?

So I can start my statistics book today, which is good, and also I found many things that need doing around the house while I am stuck here.

I can learn to use the Gentle Leaders I bought for the dogs, back when I was flush and could spend $11 on leashes. The trainer who was here a few weeks ago (www.marciasbestdogs.net) had my dogs walking RIGHT NEXT TO ME with these.

I've tried Gentle Leaders before and Lu gently lay in the street like road kill when she had it in. But that trainer? Had her walking in five minutes.

The last trainer I had here similarly tried the Gentle Leader, and said, "In all my years, I've never met a more obstinate dog than Tallulah." I was kind of proud of Lu for that.

I can paint the redunkulous ceiling. I realize that will actually take money to do, but as you can see it needs doing. This is in the spare bedroom, where Lily and Iris hang out. Does anyone have how-to-paint-the-ceiling advice? Oh! But that reminds me.

Marvin sent me a picture of Anderson Cooper, all grown up, for our viewing pleasure. He looks the same, doesn't he? Marvin calls him Ampersand. I mean, he didn't change his name, he just calls him that instead of Anderson, thinking he's hilarious. Who misses Marvin thinking he's hilarious? ...Anyone?

Anderson/Ampersand is a beautiful cat. And he and Henry just love each other. Now I suppose some yahoo wants Marvin to send over a picture of Henry. June and her revolving jobs and cats and men.

Honestly, if I had blogged from 1998-2007, it would've been same job/man/cats. Okay, I switched jobs, but from 1999-2006 it was the same ding-dang job all the time, at least.

They're putting in sidewalks in my neighborhood, and it is sort of excellent that I will be home now, because I want to be one of those assholes who puts her initials in the cement. I should totally write JUNE and be not only an ass but a delusional one.

This also gives me ample time to work on my art. AKA my paint-by-numbers I bought at Michaels. I should totally do a giveaway after. Win June's fine art! Who WOULDN'T want a yellow and purple and brown and red painting? It'll look great in the family room.

I must go, because my old work just called to say they are delivering my personal effects from my desk and I do not wish to look like a loser in her robe, which I currently do. Who wishes she could answer the door in a barrel just to be hilarious?

Oy.

Money, Pinterest, and Tallulah in a flip

Guess who got a new app for her iPhone?

 

 It has old photos and then you put your own face in there.

Apps. The new way to find yourself looking up seven hours later, going, wait, I'm supposed to be just be HOME FOR LUNCH! Crap!

I always kind of wanted my hair to do that wavy '40s thing. It's almost a mullet.

Anyway. Today I am actually asking for you advice, but JUST ABOUT THIS, so for those of you who cannot wait to get back on and tell me about how repugnant my personality is, forget it.

Remember a few weeks back, when I killed myself to edit a statistics textbook? I got paid for it, and now I can:

1. Pay off a credit card, thereby cutting my credit card debt in half, which has kind of racked up since Marvin left.
2. Go shop and have fun, which I haven't gotten to do since Marvin left, as I have been relatively destitute because I pay for everything myself now.
3. Pay a big amount on a credit card bill (or pay off all of one that has only a small total due) (I have three altogether: my vet credit card, the credit card I had to open when my computer broke, and my credit card I've had forever) and go shopping just a little.

What would you do? Or maybe the better Q would be, what would a sensible person do?

I must go to work now and pray that there is nothing to do all day, because not only do I want to play with my hair app, somehow I said, Oh, maybe I'll sign up for Pinterest, and WHO WANTS TO DO NOTHING BUT PIN INTERESTINGLY ALL DAY NOW? Holy cats.

Okay, so advice, please. Someone tell me to blow it all on shopping, because my wardrobe kind of looks like Door Number Three up there.

In which June buys her own house and it is annoying

Could I be any crankier right now? I am typing this on Monday night, because I plan to overdose on decaf green tea tonight and sleep in tomorrow. I KNOW how to relax and have a good time when I'm stressed.

As you may know, if you salivate over my every move, and why don't you, I am putting this house in my own name. Now, why you can't call the mortgage company and say, "Hi! This is June's house now!" and be done with it is beyond me. I have to BUY it all over again, because interest rates are lower or the tide is rising or I'm wearing highwaters or the tide is high but I'm holding on. I DON'T KNOW. For some reason I have to go through the same paperwork hell I had to go through in April of 2008 when I bought this house in the FIRST place.

Two months ago I met with this real estate woman with unkempt hair, and I know I'm one to talk, but you have never seen hair this ludicrous.

Dude. I KNOW.

You don't have to tell ME that's saying a lot. But seriously. I wish I could include her business card photo on here. It makes my locks look silky and manageable.

And why do Realtors think they need to show us their picture, anyway? Is this gonna make us trust them more? Because once I got a load of old whirlwind hair, there, I was not so sure.

Honestly, WHAT was going on with my hair in that last photo? Did someone squeeze me like a pecan?

So I met with old unseen-wind hair, and I filled out 83848593945923.3 forms on the first day, and I swear to you I have filled out 87,000 more in the weeks that have passed. I ALREADY BOUGHT THIS HOUSE. How much paperwork could there BE?

Today I got a huge packet in the mail from the bank, and then this woman called me and went over the FIFTY PAGES I needed to sign and return to her. Also, I had to write a letter explaining why I was laid off (Dear Bank, The economy sucks. You started it. Love, June), and the VARIATIONS IN MY NAME.

They want to know why I have a maiden name, a married name, and why I sometimes use my middle initial. I am not making that up. Woooo! With the aliases!

So after work, I sat here and wrote my letters and explained that wild middle inital use...

...then I tried to fax all the pages to New York.

Oh, for the love of all that is holy.

Have you ever tried to fax 50 different-sized pages from your 1902 fax machine? I have to tie the power cord to a dinosaur, who dances a sugaring-off dance playing on a Victrola to get it started. Oh, I tried 87 times.

Finally, even though I was wearing my work pants, my Burbank Tshirt and my silver Dr. Scholl sandals that some odd person keeps writing and asking me for more photos of (Dear Foot Fetish Reader, No. Love, June), I went to Office Depot, where I was so annoyed I did not even LOOK for my kitties.

And do you know they wanted to charge me (sit down) FIFTY DOLLARS to fax those effing pages? It's a ONE EIGHT HUNDRED number! Oh, I was mad! Fifty dollars! Like it really cost them that much to send. Peckerfuckerheads.

I am sorry. That was my favorite swear in junior high. It still works.

So I gathered my fine outfit and went back home. I STOOD HERE, OVER THE FAX MACHINE, and fed each page in one at a time.

In the meantime? Everybody in the world tried to call me. My neighbor Peg came over on Saturday, as I was just getting home and had both kittens in a carrier and groceries in my other hand, to tell me she was having a deck party on the 30th. "Okay!" I said, as I headed in the house. I mean, I had a lot going on, there.

She called the next night when I was out to say the party started at 6:30 and to call her back. Now, this is something that irks me. Why do people want you to call back when you have gotten all the pertinent info? What more could there be to say? The party is NEXT DOOR. In my BACK YARD. I'll SEE it when it's happening. I won't be ABLE to forget it.

So tonight? In the middle of all this hell? RING! RING!

"Hi, June, it's Peg! Did you get my message about the party?!"

No. No, I did not. I cannot figure out this newfangled contraption called the tellyfowne, and why does it beep at me when I pick it up? What do it mean? I got a PERSON in there who will give me MESSAGES? Well, I'll be!

"Yes, Peg," I said briskly, "but I'm in the middle of buying-my-house papework right now. Can I talk to you later?"

"Wait," she said. Peg is a dear friend and a lovely neighbor and I am glad she lives next door, but she is lucky I did not have a fire bomb at that moment, and also that I really don't technically know what a fire bomb is.

"My friend wants your blog address! What is it, again?"

Peg has looked at my blog 82942949 times, and of course if she reads THIS post she will hate me. Hi, Peg!

"Byebyepie," I shot out crankily.

"Bye!?" she asked.

"YES."

"B-y-e?"

"YESSSSS!"

"And then pie, like p-i-e?"

Ohforgodssake YES.

"Dot com?"

And that is why I am writing you from Folsom Prison. I shot a neighbor in Greensboro, just to watch her die.

Anyway, all those effing effing effing DING effing DANG pages have been sent, and now guess who is looking at me with his underbite, wondering where his walk is? Dogs are so %#$#%&*# SELFISH.

This had better be the nicest house I've ever moved into, is all I can say.

...Oh, wait.