My motto as an editor: Authors are the authority on their work. I'm a full-service editor. For a reasonable fee, I'm your writing coach from the first suggested revision to the correction of the final typo.
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
I'm going to take a bit of a blogging break. I need to deal with some issues around the house, such as the lights in my bathroom don't work and it turns out the AC pipe was clogged and the drip, drip, drip of the leak didn't run out where I could see it. Instead, it went backward––toward the bathroom.
Other stuff must be done, too, and it is hot and humid.
Take care of yourselves and stay cool in all ways.
Infinities of love,
Janie Junebug
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
The My Pillow Guy has suffered too much. I can't take it anymore. This man only wants to prove that Don John won the presidency! Why should he be chastised for simply expressing his beliefs? Besides, he has all sorts of evidence to back up everything he says.
He said he was beaten senseless.
— Miles O’Toole 🍀 (@MilesOToole3) August 14, 2021
Alas , it was a pre-existing condition.
That was me. I gave him the vaccine. Sorry guys. My bad.
— Jason S. (@jasonswritings) August 13, 2021
Which chip did you inject him with?
— Mike S (@metsfanmikes804) August 14, 2021
Mike Lindell now claims he was attacked by antifa. Next he’ll claim he was attacked by flying monkeys.
— Palmer Report (@PalmerReport) August 12, 2021
Word is Mike Lindell was 'attacked' by Logic, Sanity and Truth. That Crew is fierce.
— Don Lewis (@DonLew87) August 12, 2021
The police have discovered that is was one of the #MikeLindell pillows that attacked him yesterday. The police are now looking for any unnamed accomplice, suspected of being 100% Egyptian Cotton.
— John Walsh (@John8600) August 13, 2021
Go ahead. Laugh it up, people. You've delayed Don John's reinstatement by a few days, but you won't get away with this crap forever.
Excuse me. I can't write anymore. I have to pray for Mike's recovery.
Infinities of love,
Janie Junebug
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
I've decided to share some information about myself with you. I'm known here as Janie Junebug, but that's not my real name.
I know my real name because it's the name Mother used for me all the time. My real name is That Goddam Kid.
Mother tended to run with a theme. I have one sister name named That Goddam Girl and another who is simply named Goddam it.
However, That Goddam Kid is not the name on my driver's license. My legal name is You Little Shit.
We kids shared the same nickname, though, and we heard it regularly––as in If you think you're going to that party, then you've got another think coming, old girl. Or if you think you're wearing that to school, then you've got another think coming, ________I bet you can fill in the blank.
When I told Sweet Cheeks my real name, he decided to share his real name with me. His mother called him you guttersnipe––as in You got dirty playing, you guttersnipe.
I was shocked. He must be plagued by insecurities after being called a name that horrific. I hope he changes it.
Infinities of love,
Janie Junebug
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
We made the annual visit to the vet on Tuesday, which Franklin and Penelope despised. The vet examined them, cut their nails (he's a much better manicurist than I am), supplied us with a year's worth of flea/tick/heartworm preventive, gave the necessary shots, and drew blood. The blood work costs extra, but I'm glad to pay for it because it enabled the vet to catch the early stages of kidney disease in Franklin. Franklin has eaten prescription food for a couple of years now and the kidney problem is gone. The vet is also monitoring a possible thyroid problem with Franklin.
A visit to the vet is never easy, though. Franklin and Penelope walked across the parking lot with me, but when we actually got to the door, they turned to try to go the other way. More than 100 lbs. of dog can be difficult to deter.
After the struggle to get inside, we headed for the desk, where Penelope walked around me in a circle, thus hobbling me with her leash. If Mom can't walk, then we might as well leave, yes? NO.
With help from one of the kind assistants, we made it to the back for the weigh-in. Franklin is 72 lbs. and Penelope is 40. Then it was off to the exam room. Franklin was the first to go to the back to have his blood drawn. When the vet returned him to the room, he didn't want to go through the door. As soon as I said, Mom is here, Franklin, he entered the room and threw himself at my feet.
The three of us were happy to leave, although exhausted for the rest of the day. When Franklin and Penelope went out later in the day, Franklin had great difficulty getting up the few steps to the deck. His age-related struggles weigh heavily on my mind.
That night, Penelope woke me by departing the bed in the wee small hours of the morning (Penelope is a Sinatra fan; I am not). Had it thundered, thus frightening her into the safety of my closet? No.
Come back to bed, Penelope. She returned briefly, only to hop down to emit a small, but insistent, bark. We decamped for the backyard, where Franklin, in a ballet of peeing, lifted one back leg slightly, foot straight, toes extended, and then flopped in a pile of dead leaves to watch Penelope with his usual bemused expression. She trotted from one leaf to the next blade of grass, nose to the ground, certain something unpleasant had been in her yard.
After an exhaustive search that turn up nothing, she relieved herself with an eloquent sigh. Could we return to the comfort of the bed? No. She had to inspect the flowerpots yet again, in case access to the secret passage to France had magically opened up. Not finding her heart's desire, finally she allowed us to go inside the house.
Penelope beat me back to bed, where I thought sleep awaited. Two minutes later, I rolled over and knocked one of her toys out of the bed. Unacceptable! She left the bed again to woof about the many ways life treats her unfairly.
Sleep had ended. A new day had begun.
Infinities of love,
Janie Junebug
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| The red jacket was Penelope's first item of clothing. She liked it, although it was not French. |
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Franklin recovering in my bathroom after a potty break during a hurricane--the one occasion he was angry with me. |
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Franklin enjoying a Kissmas tree while he waits for Santa Paws.   |
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
I watched two documentaries over the weekend and thought both were excellent.
The first was Val (2021, Prime Video, Rated R, 1 hr. 49 min.), in which Val Kilmer looks back on his life while struggling with the effects of the throat cancer that he says has been eradicated.
I found his comments on playing Batman in Batman Forever interesting because the Batsuit is so restrictive it precludes acting. He could barely move while in it, and couldn't see or hear.
Kilmer also talks about his preparation for the role of Jim Morrison in The Doors, a movie I did see. Kilmer is a graduate of The Julliard School of Drama. He takes his work seriously.
Val Kilmer has known success and also suffered great disappointments.
Val is a rarity in its intimacy.
In Refuge of Last Resort (2006, Prime Video, can't find a rating, 1 hr. 12 min.), director James Bills presents photos and footage he shot while stuck in New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina in 2005.
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
The governor of Florida is an idiot.
He's an embarrassment and an idiot.
Ron DeSantis has been running around making appearances in other states and chastising President Biden while Florida teems with COVID. He's banned masks in schools. He opposes hospitals making vaccinations a requisite for their staff.
He appears to be gearing up for a presidential run in 2024.
However, the DeSantis Web site features anti-safety merchandise.
Infinities of love,
Janie Junebug
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
We're under a heat advisory. I worked around the house Saturday morning (cleaned out a kitchen cabinet and the drawer under the range, dusted, organized my table linens) and gradually disrobed because of the heat. By the time Sweet Cheeks arrived, I was in nothing but my pink panties and a sports bra with no seductive gleam in my eye.
We sat down to drink margaritas and chat.
I read something about that nerve in your back, Sweet Cheeks said. Siratica. I don't know if that's how you say it.
Sciatica, I told him.
Yeah, siratica, he said.
I laughed and laughed.
Then we talked about what we'd read in the news, which we always do, which led to us bitching and complaining about people who won't get vaccinated, thereby ruining things for the rest of us.
We are old and tired and with margaritas in us we closed our eyes and took a cat nap. When we awoke, I fixed teriyaki chicken and rice for supper, followed by warm blueberry crumble with ice cream.
This crumble is better than any cobbler they have in a restaurant, he said, further endearing himself to me.
He helped me with a couple of things that required my presence on the step ladder. It was his job to hand stuff to me, including the silver chafing dish that I put on a shelf in my closet.
I told him the chafing dish had been used a total of once.
We were having a Christmas party, I explained. Ten minutes before the guests were due to arrive, X put the dish on the dining room table, put in the alcohol, and lit it. He had spilled some of the alcohol and when it caught fire, it burned the Christmas tablecloth I spent months embroidering and scorched the table. We ran around opening windows to clear the smoke and covered the burned table with a different cloth. The guests had no clue that anything strange occurred.
Sweet Cheeks laughed and laughed.
We sat down again to chat some more. I showed him how I had set up Alexa so she can turn on some lights.
If I say 'let there be light,' she turns on all the lights, I said.
That's nice, he said.
Thanks, Alexa said.
We laughed and laughed. I sent him home with leftovers that I put in plastic containers. He is the man I can trust with my Tupperware.
Infinities of love,
Janie Junebug
