To the reader who sent me zucchini bread: My love for you is a little intense right now. It might make us both uncomfortable eventually.

I want you to know I’m sitting UP at my DESK and not hunched in bed with the laptop or moaning posts into my phone. This is progress, although I can tell you it’s not 100% comfortable yet, sitting here. In this chair. Waitin’ on you. Oh, girl, to see things my way.

I didn’t want to bring it up, but I had surgery 10 days ago. I didn’t want to make a big deal. I also have not left my house or put on pants since coming home from the hospital 10 days ago, and I guess this is what it’s like to give birth, other than there is no squalling needy creature I have to raise for the rest of its life unless you count Lily.

Actually, I have had great affection for my pets during this, my convalescence. They’ve been a delight, all of them, particularly Edsel. Remember at the end of Marley and Me, when Marley is old and can finally walk nicely through that field? That’s Edsel now. He’s such a good boy.

Anyway, since I’m stuck in the house for weeks on end, I’ve decided to take on the things I always meant to do, but had a life and did not.


Yesterday, I played Dark Side of the Moon and watched The Wizard of Oz simultaneously, which I’ve always heard is a trip, because apparently I’m Shaggy now. You start the album on the third roar of the lion before the credits.

Oh my god! That was a trip, Scooob! There were times they’d knock or laugh or talk about a heart or chop a door with an axe and it was RIGHT ON THE BEAT. And many times, the song would end with the scene in the movie.

Anyway, well worth my time, watching it that way. Did you ever see footage of Mama Cass watching Janis Joplin at Woodstock? That is because you weren’t married to Marvin. Sometimes I wish Marvin’s wife, crnt., and I could form a support group. Anyway, Mama Cass, pre-ham, watches Janis Joplin and keeps shaking her head mouthing, Oh, wow. Oh, WOW. That was me watching the Wizard of Oz with Dark Side of the Moon yesterday.

After that, I finally started my righting-my-slides project I talked about. I told myself I only had to fix one wheel per night, otherwise I’ll get that sweaty, cranky mood I wish to avoid. I shone the slides on my wall, which is painted paneling and one day I’d like to rip it all down and the only reason I haven’t is I don’t want to ruin the original molding and it scares me. Anyway, they had grooves, my slides, but what can you do. Here are some images from the past that I flipped the right way and actually saw as they were intended for the first time.


Yes, there WAS a black spot on the slide that looked like something in my nose. Fixed it.

I like it when people say, Your hair wasn’t curly! As if no one else’s hair changed after childhood. As soon as adolescence hit, I got the George Washington look.


My Aunt Mary at prom. Now with paneling! I love this dress. A year later, my Aunt Kathy wore it to HER prom. Aunt Kathy, using those in-law connections.


Hello, dog I don’t know. Has anyone changed less in life? Other than my hurr.


Hello, cat I don’t know. This is a cat at a really pretty hotel we stayed at, in Canada. It’s a polite cat cause it’s Canadian. Also, I promise you I did not even consider climbing that tree. Was placed, like prop.


Sums up my feelings about being outside.


Here I’ve managed to show more “enthusiasm” about being outside, but I promise you I was biding my time. Ned used to tell me when he was young he was literally outside all day, in creeks and baseball fields, catching toads and so on, and I think, I would have abhorred you. And vice versa. He’d have been like every kid, who looked at my avid indoorswoman status with disdain.


Bob Dylan and I share a hairdo.


Why was I given teapots and records to play with? Was there no cat?

But here’s what I really wanted to show you.


Oh, hell, yeah. Trova! At Pace! Columbus!

Years ago, I wrote about the art from my childhood. For years, YEARS, I sat around the little entryway from the living room to the dining room (color scheme: pink, yellow, turquoise, green, red, blue) wondering, What is a Trova? What is a Pace? CHRISTOPHER Columbus? For the life of me, the meaning of this poster eluded me. Was the white silhouetted man named Trova?

If my parents had put up a nice landscape I might have spent those hours forming useful thoughts and today I’d be a successful banker.

I like the tiny TV at the end of the table. I don’t recall getting to watch TV at dinner, EVER, and would have welcomed the lack of bonding to watch I Love Lucy or what have you. Maybe my mother watched TV at lunch or something. Ooo, maybe this was during Watergate. Oh, that’s an excellent guess on my part.

I have to go. I have to order a yellow cube lighting fixture and begin my Growing Up With Leggy Plants seminar. But there’s a chance I’ll fix more slides tonight, and for this you should be rapt with anticipation.

June. At Pace. Columbus.


One of my friends called me last night and said, “Oh, I’m glad I caught you at home.”

Also, my neighbor came over this morning to help me with my trash cans, and she asked, “So, what are your plans for today?”

It’s becoming a thing amongst some of my friends that they want to be the first to split me wide open with their funny funny humor. My friend from work, Austin, keeps trying to send me funny texts so that I blow open like the wafer-thin-mint guy.

But I already had hysterics when I spoke to Ned on the phone and he was complaining about his hair. (To a woman with no ovaries and a new scar who has to be housebound for six weeks.) Anyway, he said, “My hair just lies there, like Tony Randall.”

When I asked him why, he said it was because Tony Randall is dead. I realize that explanation doesn’t help us at all.

I do feel slightly less foggy as of yesterday afternoon. I’m not saying I’m not foggy, but I’m less foggy. I’m less Foghorn Leghorn and more Cloudhonk Shintoot.

I got a book from one of you that I really like and thank you. It is called Hazel Wood. You signed with the name you used to comment on my blog and I didn’t know your real last name to thank you.

It is occurring to me that I could’ve looked on my blog, found one of your comments, looked to see if you have an email address there and gotten a hold of you there. This lets me know that my brain is less foggy today and see above regarding Shintoot.

If I’m not mistaken, and I really could be, The Poet is going to come over today at lunchtime. Also Kit has offered to bring me lunch tomorrow. I have no appetite still, which I guess should be exciting, but I feel hungry and then nothing sounds good to me. Kit made me a chicken pie right at the beginning of my convalescence, and it was freaking delicious and it’s the only thing I was able to consume with any relish. Not literally. Anyway I’ve eaten it all. I think I’ll make her bring me a hamburger from one of the downtown restaurants tomorrow. I hope I can eat it.

Speaking of The Poet, I still have this ridiculous chat feature on my phone that we use at work. Mostly what the copy editors use it for is to ask, “Does anyone need any extra work? I have too much” or “Does anyone have any work to do? I have nothing to do.”

So I have seen those countless discussions while I try to get offa my cloud. The copy edit team is so nice to each other. Today I saw someone say, “Does anyone need any extra work? No pressure.” It’s just so polite. We’re like the Canada of the world of work teams.

I have to go. If Poet is really coming over I should shower and fix my Moses hair. My gray growout project is two inches in and these curls are very Red Sea parting. Perhaps this look is a mistake.

Once again, I hope any of this made sense because I feel like I’m making sense but then again I feel like I’m floating off on a cloud of waves. So what do I know?

UPDATE: I know comments are turned off and I’m trying, with my very clear head, to turn them on. With my smile.

UPDATE TO UPDATE: Comments fixed.

UPDATE TO UPDATE TO UPDATE: I got enough tips to pay for the stupid domain name so I took that part of my blog post down.

FINAL UPDATE: In the nine days since my surgery, I have been invited to four parties. All of which have occurred this past week or so. I couldn’t go to any of them but that’s more parties than I get invited to in a whole year usually. What is up with that?

Is this thing on? And by “this thing,” I mean my brain’s synapses. Which technically, then, should be “Are these things on?” which tells you the answer is no.

Hello. I know this is news to most of you, but I had surgery nine days ago. And here’s the irony: Whereas in most cases I make a huge, over-the-top, Dooce-level deal out of things and usually they turn out to be nothing, in this case I secretly thought my surgery

—did you know I had surgery?—

would be no big deal, just a few days under the weather, when in fact oh my god I have a brain cloud. My mind is just…not working.

I’ve phoned my doctor’s office, twice now, so let’s count down till she quits, and it turns out it’s normal to feel this foggy and out of it and slow as Mrs. Butterworth’s bodily fluids (is there still a Mr. Butterworth?), but man is it disconcerting. My rapier wit is all I had. Or at least my I-get-handsy-when-drunk wit.

I haven’t taken Percocet in a week, and have plans to dress as Huggy Bear, in a jaunty cravat, and sell it right outside my door. Maybe set up a lemonade stand of sorts. I haven’t even taken the Advil since Saturday. The pain is pretty tolerable, but of course remember I’m tough and no-nonsense like that buzz-cutted creature Demi Moore played. What was her name? Oh, right, Demi Moore.

Bah. Okay, I’m not THAT bad. And in fact today I feel a bit better, although I have no idea if this post is making any sense. OH! But I’m glad I thought of this! People have sent food and books and jewelry and so on and it’s SO NICE, and my mother takes the boxes, and I say to myself, “What a wonderful world” and also, “I’ll remember who sent this”




So I know I have not thanked people and I really apologize. I’ve been trying to keep up with who sent what but fog. Fog on the water.

Currently, I am sporting a baby-blue cardigan over a pair of pale-green cabbage rose pajamas. I have completed my look with lavender ankle socks. I haven’t put on clothes in 10 days. In fact, I’m washing my robes/pajamas right now, three at a time so I don’t lift more than 10 pounds, because when you have the support group I do,

it’s easy to get fur-clad. Really, if you were in the market for pets, mine have been a dream and I highly recommend you steal them for your next convalescence. Only two of the four are actively dying. Well worth the misdemeanor.

Look. I don’t know what’s wrong with Iris, exactly, but it isn’t good. And old Eds may last ages. I’ve had people throw Blu for him, since I can’t. I tried to toss Blu for him yesterday. Like, I sort of rolled it across the grass, since my mother and stepfather left for fun and profit and wild blue yonders and so on. I DO have backup friends and neighbors who said they’d help and I think Ima have to cash in my chips on getting someone to throw for Eds. Also I can’t lift the animals’ water dish, so today I put water in the kettle and kind of poured new water in there, but that’s disgusting. I want to pour it all out and start anew.

You know what occurs to me. I have a GIANT bowl down there, from back when we had Lottie. Before Garp bit Bonkie. I don’t NEED that giant of a bowl any longer with just one aged dog and three backup cats who don’t drink much because they’re all on keto. So what I can do is wait till the water level gets lower, later today, lift THAT, dump it out, and replace it with a reasonable bowl. Like, a Walter Cronkite bowl.

I’m glad we solved that together. This all has been good for my problem-solving skills.

Also, speaking of problem-solving, whilst my beleaguered family was here, which is a bit of a blur, or really a lot of a blur, we decided to watch my slides. I have slides and a slide projector that had belonged to my father, who was a photographer. And I was an only child. So basically the slides are his half of the 3940509204 photos taken of me from birth to age 11, when everyone divorced.

First, the slides and projector were up too high in the closet. I tried to reach them and felt self splitting in two, so I called my mother in. Who is shorter than me by four inches. See: fog.

So then we called my stepfather in, who is 9 feet tall, and he handed each slide box to me who really shouldn’t have been lifting them. See: fog.

Then we got the huge heavy clunky slide projector and took everything to the living room and of course had a terrible time finding where to plug it in because this house was built in 1922 before there were plugs and I have no idea how anyone watched cable in 1922 and they all must have been cranky.

So after dragging out not one but TWO power strips from other rooms, which involved unplugging all the things plugged into them in those rooms and finding the first power strip mysteriously didn’t work in the living room, after that, we finally got the projector turned on. It was mostly me in the cardigan and pajamas that turned it on.

Then my stepfather and I spent 49 hours trying to get the slides to rotate on the projector. There were the world’s most vague instructions on the back of the slides, instructions my stepfather, who has 79 degrees and also 98 Degrees including one of those easy-to-get medical degrees, could not comprehend.

After the fall of the Roman empire and the Revolution and Prince, we figured out how to get the slides to rotate. Then we just had to take the TV down so we could project the slides. I couldn’t do this, so my stepfather and mother did.

“Please try not to unplug the things in the back,” I said, as they unplugged all the things in the back.

Finally, FINALLY, we were ready.


Light bulb burned out on projector.

Now, see, anyone related to me by blood would have smashed everything with a bat, like in Office Space, but my stepfather very methodically found out what kind of new bulb we needed, then headed out with my mother to get one at a local store.

They were out of that particular kind.

Then we couldn’t figure out which plugs went where in the TV. TV is pretty much ALL I HAVE TO DO right now, so.

At this point, ANY NORMAL HUMAN would have shot up an entire stadium with a rifle, but my stepfather very methodically figured out the plug sitch and then ordered said bulb online, which came in the mail yesterday.

So yesterday, we finally, finally sat down, the three of us, to watch slides of my childhood, and we once again figured out how to put the slides on the machine the right way in order to rotate them, and my stepfather Job put the bulb in, and then?

The first set of slides were all vacation pictures from a trip my father took in 1981.

The good news is, we finally got to slides of my mother and me, and most of them were upside-down and flipped, and since I literally have nothing else to do I am going to turn the projector back on and methodically turn them all the right way during this, my convalescence.

I have to go, because London called and wants it fog back. I feel this is an excellent time to shower, as my washer cycle has ended so I won’t have one of those upsetting showers where it’s like you have a fever with the hot and the cold and the hot again. Those are the worst.

From the operations department,

P.S. Also, I mostly posted because poor Sadie, who’s not on any social media, kept leaving sad, “Hope you’re not dead” comments on my last post, whenever the hell that was. I’M ALIVE, Sadie! Sort of.

I woke up at 3:30 this morning, thirsty as all get-out. Not for attention, but thanks for that funny funny joke. For water. And if you can’t find anything to be grateful about today, be thankful you can roll out of bed with relative ease and make your way to the nearest water source. Oh my gorsh, as my 9th-grade drama teacher would have said.

It seems funny that I had to be taught drama, really.

Anyway I struggled like a turtle on its back and finally I got up and hunch hunch hunched like a T-rex to the kitchen.

I’m not sure if I mentioned this, but I had surgery this week. Antelopes in lion-heavy deserts have less trouble getting to water than I do RN.

I noticed Edsel had followed me to the kitchen, probably thinking, god mom, move azz. speed it up. who you be, mrs. wigguns?

“Do you need to go outside?” I asked him. As soon as I said that, from out of the bowels of the house, Milhous came BOUNDING out, ran UNDER Edsel’s legs and slid to a halt at the back door like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.

And right then I knew Milhous knows that sentence.

By the way, he also knows, “No,” which is what I told him about wanting to prance around in the snow at 3:30 at night.

It snowed here.

You can see it was pretty severe. Yet I still didn’t want this orange beast out in it at night.

If you have any NC friends other than me, you already know it snowed here, as we are somehow compelled to photograph our annual snow and excitedly Instagram it to those of you in, say, Ohio, who are in month four of living in an igloo.

Are igloos really a thing or is that another racist Warner Bros. cartoon idea? Do you think all the Warner Bros. cartoonists were bros who got drinks after work and so on? Do you think saying they were animators got them the ladies?

These are the thoughts you can entertain when you’re lying about tryina recover.

You know what I might do? Get out of of my huge books or book series and reread it. What say you?

Meanwhile, I’m out of coffee and Pam isn’t here yet to order around, so Ima have to remove the cats (orange and blind) and mince out to the kitchen. That’ll be a relaxing 15 minutes. Pam and my stepfather are at a hotel. They are allergic to cats. Plus I have the one bed and all. They said my house is bigger once you’re here. People also note Edsel is smaller when they meet him. He’s really more of a medium dog, although he’s never given me a message from beyond, ever.

Okay, here I go to the kitchen to feed my addiction.


“How do you like your eggs?”


Get it? Do you? I got a million of ’em. You know what I haven’t got a million of? Ovaries.

In case you just got here, or maybe you forgot because I tried not to mention it often, on Tuesday, CU Next Tuesday, I had an operation. Sometimes the doctor hit the metal sides and my nose lit up.

What I had done was a bisexual Oooo child with lapsang souchong. I believe that was the official name of what I had done.

Another thing I tried not to mention often was I had to be there at 5:30 a.m. What bullshit is that?

I woke up two minutes before my alarm of the reasonable hour of 4:45, or as I like to call it, four fucking forty fucking five fucking a fucking m. Really one of the worst parts of the ordeal was waking my dog to go out and then eat. Never in my life have I had to wake this dog. On weekends when there’s no alarm, if I am awake but haven’t opened my eyes yet, he knows I’m awake and I can hear him flump flump flumping his tail down on his bed.

she wake! she WAKE! it new day! it new day wif hair!

I have no idea how I got hooked up with someone so positive, but there it is.

At four fucking forty fucking five fucking a fucking m, my dog was fast asleep. I stood over his bed where he was softly whiffling.

“Edsel,” I said softly. With my sonnnnng.

“Whiffle,” breathed Eds.

“Whiffle,” he repeated.

I had to actually shake a haunch to wake him. “Eds, it’s time to get up.”

You’ve never seen someone snap into character more quickly. He could be a fireman.

“O! It…okay! Hello! It new—just let Eds get glasses on heer—IT NEW DAY! YES!”

When I left the house, I noted even the neighbor’s rooster was quiet. EVEN THE ROOSTER was in a head kerchief with the blankets pulled up.

Four fucking forty fucking five fucking a fucking m. Come on.

The good news is, my anesthesiologist was cute. He was a young bearded ginger. Oh, you shoulda seen me trying to turn on the charm. In my blue gown with yellow and red geometric patterns and yellow grippy socks with grips on either side in case I wanted to walk on the fronts of my feet.

“I can’t begin to tell you how much I do not wish to throw up,” I Mrs. Robinsoned him. I posed one be-grip-socked leg at him flirtatiously. “Let me get you a nausea patch,” he said, leaving to get a patch and a dinner reservation plus hotel suite for us.

I got the patch, but my Q is, why can’t I always wear a nausea patch? I won’t have to recoil when someone says they’re nauseated. I can feel okay during a migraine. I can look at any doo-dad marked, “Live, laugh, love.”

Eventually my doctor came in, and other than calling my cyst a “mass,” she was actually delightful and funny all day. She started explaining what I was having done and I told her I was an expert in the procedure as I had googled it. “Oh, good, then you can do it,” she suggested.

“Keep me awake and I’ll guide you,” I told her.

They wheeled me into that huge cold room with machines and a scary table. “This is cozy,” I said, and my doctor was all, “We designed it to look like home.”

Anyway then the thing happened where you’re, like, dead out and then I woke up. I was surrounded by nurses and my doctor, telling me we had to do real surgery and not laparoscopic surgery. “Where’s the anesthesiologist?” I asked. “He was so cute.” I know the compression things on my legs would have cinched the deal.

They’d told me before that if I had to have an incision I’d probably have to stay over, but that day they told me my doctor would be back after 5:00 and I might could go home if I passed certain tests, such as trig and the Presidential Fitness test.

I don’t remember a lot about the day except I was riveted by this shift that got to work at 5:30. I kept asking everyone about it. One of my nurses had RUN A FEW MILES before work. Dudes. EVEN THE ROOSTER WASN’T UP, yet she had run a few miles.

They gave me a giant menu and encouraged me to eat but you’ll be stunned to hear I had no appetite. I asked for black coffee, because who woudn’t, and I sipped a little tomato soup, because I wanted GERD on top of everything else.

They told me to get up, to see if walking was okay.

Guess what. OUCH, oh my god.

“I’m Sharon Tate, over here!” I bellowed as I minced out of my room. My nurse, who was between 16 and 35 years old, probably did not get the joke, and my tasteful jokes are wasted on the wrong people.

I don’t think we made it to the next room when the nurse said, “You don’t have to be a hero. We can quit any time.”

That was all I needed to hear. “I won’t be a hero. I won’t be a fool with my life,” I said, turning my pole around, got to feel percussion.

Have you ever noticed the proliferation of 1970s songs having circus-y music? It’s awful. Although maybe that song was just sort of soldier music. I am just now realizing maybe he was a hero going off to war. I thought he’d joined the circus.

Hunh. Right then, I knew.

Anyway, I barely remember the whole day other than that walk of stab. They encouraged me to eat dinner as well, and although I was still not hungry, I ordered pot roast. A few minutes later they brought me fish, broccoli and rice.


I ate it, though, and it was really good, and some health nut out there got pot roast.

Finally my doctor came back to the surgical center. She’d gone to work after removing my oofs.

“Hey, why are you sleeping?” she asked. “You act like you had surgery today or something.”

She told me I could go home, but warned me to lie about listlessly like any other day in my life, and also “Nothing in the vagina.”

“Great. So where do you suggest I keep my Ping-Pong balls?”

And see. Right then I regretted the “nothing in vagina” portion of events, because I wanted to make sweet love to self and gaze at me after, singing a few bars of After the Lovin’ by America’s treasure Englebert Humperdink.

As the nurse wheeled me out, she said, “The doctor and I were just out there talking about how cool you are,” she said. “It’s been fun having you.”

That’s why I left them my ovaries to remember me by.


Do you ever get disproportionately mad about something?

Today, I was trying to put on my contacts. Do you wear contacts? I wear dailies, meaning each day I put in a new pair and each night I throw them out. It’s supposed to be the sanitariest method and as you know I’m quite a neatnik.

Really, I wear those because they are the only kind that will go in my eye. I don’t know what’s happened over the years. When I was 27, I could slide any old pair in. I could spend $6 on a pair of Earl’s Kontacts for Less from the mall and do just fine. Then my eyes got persnickety.

Not only do I have to wear dailies–even weeklies feel like dinner plates–I have to wear just one brand. And every year my eye doctor is all, “I can’t believe you still wear these old-fashioned Bob’f Ye Old Contactf.” Every year he’s all, “Try these. They’re so much thinner and so much more moisturizing” and every year it’s all, DINNER PLATES and we have to go back in time and get my old brand from Damascus where they still make them.

I had no idea I could talk this long about contacts.

Anyway, this morning I put the left one in and I knew it had a cat hair in it. You may be shocked to learn this is a common issue for me. You wouldn’t think one thin speck of fur would KILL YOUR EYE OUT, but it does.

I’d come out of the bathroom with my contacts in my hand and my banjo on my knee, and lying across the threshold was Milhous, which was sort of cute, a cat lying across the threshold of the bathroom for no discernable reason, so I petted him and right there was my mistake.

So I had to take it out and try again and it worked, finally. Then I put in the right contact and it


out of my eye and onto god knows where.

“Goddammit,” I said, patting the folds of my sexy robe to try to retrieve it.

So there was a dollar I just wasted. I got up and got a second right contact from Thine Contactf and Apothecary. “As worn by Judaf!

Do you like how I keep making the Ss Fs? And also combining Olde English with Biblical refs? God, I’m hilarious.

I opened the second package and put it in my eye and it



DAMMIT!!!” I screeched, alarming everyone else who lives here.

And that is the story of how I got disproportionately mad.

I do it all the time though. I’m not good with everyday frustrations.

Speaking of everyday frustrations, tomorrow I have to be at the surgery center at 5:30 a.m., and I plan to write quite a testy Yelp about this whole experience. Can you imagine? What are we going to do, begin roasting a huge turkey? 5:30 in the morning. I might as well not go to bed.

So don’t expect a post from me tomorrow, as I will be under the—whatever they use to do laparoscopic surgery. I’ll try to write Wednesday but I will be on narcotics so I will sound like everyone in my neighborhood. Also, my mother will be here. It is likely she will not be on narcotics.

I was kind of hoping I’d hallucinate. I never have, and it seems like it’d be fun. Maybe I’ll hallucinate that my mother is here. Maybe she’s not coming at all and is hoping that’s what I do.

This weekend I ran around trying to do every chore I could think of so I’d be okay with lying about for weeks on end. I say that like I’m such a go-getter. Oh, what trouble I have not being productive! Pfft.

I guess that’s all I have to tell you, except, oh! Edsel!

As you know, because you’ve hidden cameras all over my life, Eds and I play fetch a lot. I noticed awhile back that he literally can’t see Blu if he doesn’t see where it lands. He sniffs right near it but doesn’t SEE it. That is why I got him some Red Blus, which makes no sense, but guess what. He doesn’t see those either.

Last night I stared at his eyes, which as a not-alpha made him all kinds of nervous, and I know you can’t see in this picture, but it seemed like maybe there was a little cloudiness in his eyes. At what age do they get cataracts? It seems unfair that he has to have arthritis, a bad heart AND cataracts.

We have to go to the vet in April anyway for his heart checkup, so I’ll ask then. Maybe he needs little glasses.

My advanced art course is filling up. Register soon.

I’ll talk to you postsurgery. Unless I oversleep and miss it.


Ooo, wait. I think I got paid last night. Hang on…

…Aw, HELL, yeah.

Last night I was the Little Match Girl. This morning I’m a rapper in the club, throwing bills on the asses of strippers. Let me get my pimp cup.

Do you like how all my versions of big spending are from 1996 music videos?

ACTUALLY, she mansplains, I ended this pay period with a respectable $236 left over. I know for some of you, a respectable $236 would make you panic and hang on to the kids and live on your own urine till you got paid, but I was all, heyyyyy! Look who’s middle class, with her comfortable cushion of TWO THIRTY SIX, over here! I was June Cleaver.

Also, while we’re still on the prickly topic of monnnayy, I got my tax refund. Now, first I was going to send it all to my mother for the fence. In case you aren’t familiar with my every move, and how is that even possible, my mother fronted me the cash for my fence and I am paying her back. Somewhere in a sidebar here is the countdown, the FINAL COUNTDOWN, of what I owe her. I’d already subtracted the tax refund and it’s at $2,000 now.

But just this morning I was looking at Iris, over there eating her sick-stomach food blindly, and remembered her recent health emergency and remembered I put that all on a card and I think I still owe on it. So maybe I’ll divide the two — fence and cat emergency. Fence and the red river valley that flowed outta my cat the other day. Straight outta colon.

I’d really prefer to $pend it in the club. Actually, a club sounds like a nightmare, doesn’t it? All that loud music and you can’t talk. Plus I’d just get a migraine after the first drink and heyyyy, hoooo, heyyyyy, hoooo, hey—fuck this. Hey, ho, I’m going home.


Oh. Happy Valentine’s Day! Are we going to have sex now? This morning I woke up to not one but TWO V-Day texts from various and sundry men, which proves I have still got it, although along with my ovaries, that is hanging by a thread.

Also, and I seem to have a lot of announcements today. This whole post is just a bullet-list newsletter on mimeographed paper. But also, you know how I drink a lot of the coffee. Recently I figured out that Seattle’s Best Coffee tastes just the same as Starbucks but for way cheaper. Which is probably how I have $236 left over. But a few days in a row now I haven’t liked the best Seattle has to offer me. I’m all, bleah. What the hell with this coffee?

And then it occurred to me. Maybe I should put fewer scoops in. So today I did, and you know what? It’s better!

Right then I knew.

I guess that’s all my news for today’s newsletter, and I really should start churning the mimeograph. As I write you all the pertinent info of the day, Eds and I are having a standoff. I have to feed Iris separately from the other cats, although some days that’s just too exhausting and I say screw it and everyone gets Iris’s $99 food, but usually not because see above re $99 food. So while Lily and Milous eat on the dryer like normal people, Iris has to eat over on the counter in the kitchen, the one my neighbor Ronda said was “classy” because I don’t have anything on it.

However, that shelf is low enough that if Edsel really really really tries, if he puts on his heels, he can get to it. And what happens more often than I’d like to admit is, I get into writing here and


roll roll roll roll

the now-empty bowl of Iris-got-99-problems-but-her-food-ain’t-one rotates across my floor and Edsel looks pleased and well-fed. HE JUST ATE. But that is always irrelevant to the Eds.

Meanwhile, Iris will be still up on the counter with her hands on her hips. ware fud go?

So today, every 45 seconds or so, I have to say, “Edsel.” Because he’s once again creeping ’round my back stairs, out of this room, and over to the bowl. As soon as I say his name, he letter-Cs and slunks back in here (slunks is a FINE word) but I have to stay alert at all times like an airport German shepherd.

It’s overwhelming, all this responsibility. I don’t know how I manage to do it all.

All right, I really am going now, and fending off my many swains on Valentine’s Day. I had more than one woman friend offer me a happy GALentine’s Day yesterday and I am no longer friends with any of them.


As you know, since I’ve spoken of little else and at this point you want me to go down like Kanye’s mom, I am having surgery next week. They sent me a strongly worded pre-op letter with all caps like your grandma’s Facebook posts…

…telling me to not take aspirin for two weeks prior (sent one week before the surgery) and DO NOT WEAR JEWELRY.

Okay, Quaker.

When I went to my doomsday doctor for the doomsday pre-op appt. (honestly she is the least-reassuring person in the county), I mentioned that I’ll take off my many priceless jewels but that I have not one but two daith piercings for my migraines that can’t come out of my ear unless I go down to the tattoo parlor and have them removed with, like, pliers. You should see that thing Tuna, my piercer, whips out.

Also, again with tattoo parlor. Have you enjoyed that new hit single, Camptown Races?


“Well, you’re really going to have to take those out, and that procedure has a strong chance of killing you,” said my World’s Least Reassuring Doctor. “Which won’t matter because you’re dying of ovaries anyway and there’s a strong chance the receptionist will go after you with her machete as you check out.”

Seriously. She is sans reassurance.

By the way, that soup picture up there? I’ve been following this page on Reddit called OldPersonFacebook, which features ridic things old people do on, you know, Facebook, and every day I collapse into those kinds of giggles where the dog checks on you. I realize I’m like five years from being an old person on Facebook.

Anyway, after leaving the doctor, who is out shopping for a vulture to hook to the end of my bed as she wheels me to surgery, I headed to the tattoo


to have my piercings removed. There was a gentlewoman behind the desk with a fashionable nosegay, if by nosegay we mean a giant disc in her nose. I told her about my upcoming surgery and the entire place stood up and screamed


and then she told me a lot of people come in with this dilemma. I guess you can get, like, electric shock when you keep jewelry in or something? Dr. Doom muttered something about cauterization before suggesting I get my affairs in order and offered me several coffin liners to check out, so whatever, I’ll do what she says. As opposed to the grandmother I’ve turned into, who refused to admit she had dentures on and had surgery with them in. Can you imagine? Oh, so my fake teeth go down my throat. At least I looked my best!

I sat on one of the endless leather couches at my tattoo parlor

and watched other people look for tattoos in a giant book of, you know, tattoos. I just recently read there’s a tattoo artist in I think New York who fashions tattoos from old lithographs, and dude, oh my god, I think that’s so beautiful.

“Hi, honey, I’m ready for you,” a bearded man said, who looked suspiciously like Tuna but wasn’t. I mean, he was huge and had six thousand holes in his body, but because I have careful powers of observation, I concluded he was ANOTHER large piercing guy.

“Oh, is Tuna not here?” I asked, as if Tuna lives there and can’t possibly have other things to do, like be in tartare.

“Nope, it’s his day off. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.”

I know women get insulted when people call them honey and sweetheart but I always just love it. Perhaps it’s because I’m narcissistic

[whole room stands up and screams, “WE KNOW”]

or maybe it’s because once you’ve known me for 12 seconds you know I am not a sweetheart, but I am always delighted by it. You get an older black lady calling me those things and I melt into a puddle of comfort.

Why can’t my doctor be like Tuna Helper up in this bitch?

In case you’re not well-versed in body piercing, and I feel like you’ll forgive me for saying I see most of you as pretty vanilla middle-aged women who aren’t parading around with their parts pierced beyond that wild Saturday afternoon at Claire’s Boutique circa 1979, I will explain where the daith is.

Okay, touch the top of your ear. You know the next ridge down? That’s your daith. That’s what I have pierced. I heard it’s an acupressure point that helps migraine, and I called several piercers in the area and it was only Tuna who spoke intelligently and knowledgeably on the subject. Also, he was honest. He told me some of his clients saw a huge difference and some were like, This was tiddlywinks.

I figured it was worth $40 to try, and I swear I’ve head less-frequent and less-intense migraines on that side. Then just two weeks ago I finally got the other side pierced, not knowing I’d have to remove it.

And lemme tell you what. Getting your daith pierced? Hurts for a long time after. Like, you can’t lie on that side for months. So you can imagine how I was looking forward to removing the stubborn barbell in there with giant pliers, then sticking a piece of plastic in there to keep the hole open till after my surgery.

Did you know I’m having surgery?

Taking the earring out on the old piercing was cake. It still takes awhile cause that mother is in there, and Tuna Helper and I discussed why he’s a piercer. As a kid he was obsessed with National Geographic magazines, and got very into rituals that welcomed you into manhood, which often includes scarification and piercings. So first he worked on himself and now he pierces old white ladies with migraines.

Anyway, I won’t torment you with the deets, but let’s just say he told me the worst part would be removing the earring on the new side, that I’d feel “a lot of pressure.” Why do they say pressure when they mean pain?

And let me tell you what. That earring must have been a Taurus, because stubborn? And he was right. It was hurty. When he finally got it out I was glad. It was like 15 minutes trying to remove that barbell up in m’daith.

Then he had to take this tiny plastic tube and sort of…repierce that area to keep it open. And this is where I will abstain from making you faint and let’s just cut to the part where I said, “Oh my god let’s let it grow back. Seriously, let’s give up.”

“Are you sure?” asked Tuna Helper. “I really do hate hurting you like this.”

Maybe I need to hang around more motorcycle piercing people, because they’re way nicer than the I-have-a-degree-in-arts types I hang with now and their cynical selves.

In summary, I have one plastic earring on the old side and absolutely nothing on the left side, as I was too big of a delicate flower to keep trying to put a plastic hoop in there. The end.

Oh! But before I go, June says, never reaching the end, spending nights in white satin coffin liners.

My boss, crnt., is purchasing school-spirited shirts for herself, her spouse and their twin sons who are somewhere between 5 and 9 years old. She asked if you guys would pick shirts for them, and each one can be different or they can all be the same style.

Also, boss, crnt., don’t get mad at me for not knowing how old your kids are. You know how I am. They’re little. But going-to-school little.

Okay, here are the choices.

Here is also a link if you want to see them better than this.

I always want to like hooded sweatshirts but in reality they rip my glasses off my face whenever I remove them, so.

Okay, now I’m really going.


In case you just got here, I used to be married. I met Marvin on my first day of my second year at Michigan State, which is weird because we’d lived in the same building the entire first year and we’d never met. It wasn’t technically the same dorm—he was on the other side of the building, in what was designated as a “quiet” dorm. At the time, I couldn’t imagine anything I wanted less than quiet.

But our cafeteria was the same, and a ton of our friends were too, which is how I got dragged over to his unsanitary off-campus house, where he lived with many boys I already knew. How did I never meet him? But there he was on the first day of year two.

He was my only case of love at first sight, ever.

The rest is a long story of dating two different times in college, followed by a 10-year breakup and eventual reuniting when I lived in Seattle and he lived in Los Angeles. Eventually I moved to LA, we got engaged, we got married and we stayed that way for 14 years.

During the years of writing of this interminable blog, we eventually separated and divorced and I sold that veil in a yard sale and Marvin moved to Atlanta and met someone with almost my same last name who seems very kind and he married her and that’s the end.

But occasionally someone here will ask about Marvin Gardens, my ex, who was a major character for the first five years. So I texted him the other day to ask if he’d like to update us on his life. “Sure,” he said, as I figured he would, because I still speak Marvin.

So without further ado, here is the update Marvin sent me, with my I-speak-Marvin interpretation in brackets.

Hello Beatle people! Here’s the latest update for 2002. [This is Marvin being funny, see.] I’ve been in Atlanta now for more than five years. Almost as long as I spent in high school! I was doing sound for feature films and TV shows for the last few years, but I’ve got a new job this year outside of the biz (be sure to check out my latest show “Labor of Love” on Fox this year). I’m working for a company that manufactures and sells audio equipment for classroom use.

Still happily (re)married for 3+ years now. Have a new addition to the family in the form of the Diego dog!

He’s a rescue from a litter of 9 (!) that some friends were fostering. He’s a sweet pup, but a real handful. Still trying to get him to do his business outside the house after a month of training. May need to invest in some doggie diapers. [To Marvin’s inevitably beleaguered wife: You may have wanted to read this before you got a puppy with him.]

Henry and Anderson Cooper are doing their best to adjust. [Dear Reader: Those are my cats that he got in the divorce. To be fair, I got the dogs, plus ridiculous Francis as a bonus parting gift.] Henry is still pretty nimble, so he is able to jump on tables to avoid getting nibbled on by the pup. Ampersand is too fat, so he just has to deal. [Marvin calls Anderson Cooper “Ampersand,” and I’ve no idea why, as Anderson Cooper was an excellent name.]

For the last couple years I’ve been plunking the bass in a cover band playing bad ’90s music (or a bad cover band playing ’90s music). Also just released a nearly four-hour ballad about the Apollo 11 moon landing under my stage name Rob Disner (now available on iTunes)!

Not much else to report at the moment. About to jump in the shower (although you should really just stand there and let the water run over you). Later peeps! [That shower joke was funny.]

Marvin also sent us photos of my cats, fmr., and here they are:

Oh my god, they are huge. I mean, I know Lily weighs 467 pounds. I just mean they seem big-bone-ded compared to my lithe girly cats and youthful Milhous. I wish to kiss Henry and Anderson C. many times. Henry is 11 now!

So that’s the update on that ex. Maybe we could ask my 10th-grade boyfriend what he’s up to.

Anyway, I have to go, but you know how I am, so remind me to tell you about having to go to the tattoo parlor to get my daith piercings removed as part of my pre-surgery prep. OH MY GOD. Must I constantly have to go places and be traumatized?

Also, “tattoo parlor.” Let me grab m’sassafras and m’FiffleFaddle and join you in a game of tiddlywinks.

Modernly and divorcedly,

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away—which isn’t it all true—but also my computer told me I had yet another ding-dongle update to make. So I made it, because I am a rule-follower. It turns out it was one of those major King Kamehameha take-forever updates and I could never write you.

Now it’s the next morning, and I let the dog out and in and fed all three cats their individual snowflake food (Iris: I’m-sick food; Lily: I’m-fat food, Mil: Just fuckin’ feed me food) and gave the dog his heart medicine and senior old man look at my life food and gave everyone new water and made coffee for myself and was so delighted to get in here and start blogging at you and guess what. I had to sign fucking in to my computer and then it told me, “In about 10 more minutes you can use this!”


So now I am in my chair, not that I’m not always in one, speaking into my phone like a crazy person, and glaring at my computer that won’t update. How do you like the picture of the flowers that my neighbor drew?

A few weeks ago, my other neighbor, A, came over with her girlfriend. Naturally, because we have exactly the same millhouse except A’s actually knocking down walls and exposing brick, I showed them each room in my “I’m afraid to knock down walls” house. A’s girlfriend is the first person to notice that this room is dog–themed.

So that was exciting, to finally be understood.

Oh my god, my computer is telling me to agree to god knows what and then it’ll be ready! But now now Iris is on me and I feel bad getting up.

Now that I’ve complained about not being able to blog, it occurs to me that I have no idea what’s new or what I can tell you. I went to the movies a lot this weekend to get all caught up for the Academy Awards. But who cares about that? I looked in my phone to see what pictures I took this weekend and this cat action is what I found. Poor beleaguered Lily.

My Aunt Mary sent me a Valentine this weekend, as she always does every year.

Milhous knocked it down.

Why do I have all these cats?

Today I have my pre-op appointment for my surgery. I can only hope the doctor says something new to scare me, as seems to be her wont each time we meet. Maybe we can biopsy my cervix again! That was fun and I’d love to revisit.

Next week, my mother and stepfather will arrive to cater to my every need. I also wrote to some of my friends (Lilly, Kit, Marty Martin and also Kayeeee) to ask if they could be my backup help should I need it in the next few weeks. They all said no. FUCK no.

That’s not true. Everyone was happy to help, and that’s because they don’t know Ima be asking for bikini waxes and interpretive dances to get my mind off things.

I’d better go. I have to shower for my doctor’s appointment, and first I have to get Milhous out of the shower because he and Edsel were wrestling but Eds took it too far, so Mil hid in the tub, which Edsel knows is happening but he can’t quite figure out that whole challenging “There be a showir curtin in way” conundrum. The other day he managed to get his head between the curtain and liner, but saw his wagging tail under the curtain and thought it was someone else and bit it and upset himself so once again jumping in the tub is Mil’s ultimate hiding place.

I realize he has a lot of German shepherd in him, but it’s diluted by some other kind of dunce-y dog. He’s like German shepherd/Forrest Gump mix.

Okay, talk to you tomorrow. Unless my computer makes a very necessary update.


My OBGYM–oh, my god. OBGYM. What is wrong with me? The OBGYM is where you go to lift vagina weights. My vagina waits for no one.

My OBGYN called yesterday. They have a date for my surgery, in which not only will my lemon-sized ovarian cyst be leaving the building, so will my ovaries in general. The date of said festivities is February 18. At least I can still celebrate Valentine’s Day.

HAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, dear. Maybe if I’d hit the OBGYM more I’d have a Valentine.

Anyway, they asked if I had any questions, and of course first on my list was, Can I keep my ovaries, and then of course there was, Can you also fix my nose while I’m under, and finally I asked, How long will I be out of commission?

Because here’s what I figured. I figured outpatient. Maybe I’ll be out of work a day, maybe two days.

SIX WEEKS. That’s worst-case scenario. SIX WEEKS. Because, see, they’re gonna try to do it laparoscopically, meaning I get a lap dance till my ovaries fall clean out, but if that doesn’t work they have to cut me wide open and stuff me with bread, seasoning and maybe a nice orange. Although that lemon already in there will probably do nicely.

So, even if it’s lap-dance-scopically I’m out two weeks, minimum.


So here’s what we need to do. We need to think of some sort of low-key project I can do during recovery. Do I read a volume of stories? Do I organize my wardrobe? Is this the time I get a puppy so I can be home with it?

I realize the reason I will be out is because I might feel like crap, but it can’t all be crap and pain and agony, can it? Don’t answer that.

Here’s the best part: This operation may not even address my constant need to pee. ISN’T THAT THE WORST? I’m technically having this operation because I shouldn’t be having ovarian cysts at my age and otherwise I will have to keep having it checked for cancer over and over again and no thank you.

I have another appointment with my urologist in March, to see how my peeing is going. Frankly I’m ready to just remove everything from the waist down. I’m ready to just hop around stumpily like Lieutenant Dan.

Also, “waist.” Wherever are your four boxes of Girl Scout cookies, June? Are you trying to eat so many Samoas that you look Samoan?

Anyway, that’s today’s big news. I’m fixing to be sans ovaries. If you want them, I’m having a blog giveaway.

Ovarian and out,

I loved everyone’s family stories from the other day. I took yesterday off from writing just so everyone would have a chance to read and tell them all without distraction. And we did, indeed, get more yesterday.

I’ve hurt my index finger and had to put one of my cowgirl band-aids on it, so now I’m typing funny and I want you to appreciate the sacrifices I make for this family. [raps wooden spoon against pot dramatically]

I’ve really got nothing exciting to tell you, actually. They switched timekeeping systems at work and all day it’s, “Can you do this?”

“No, not yet.”

“Have you figured out how to enter…?”

“No, not yet.”

So that’s relaxing. Do you know it’s coming up on 9 years I’ve been there? Remember when I started there? Oooo, this is a good topic: Tell me what I was doing when you first started reading me. Was I married to Marvin? Was I married to the mob? Was I a swinging single dating Dick Whitman? Was it last week and you have no idea who these people are?

That’ll be fun. That’ll be fun for the whole family.

I’m writing this to you, by the way, plunged in darkness. We’re having heavy rains today and while I have the blinds open, it’s still dark AF in here. I guess I could get up and turn on a lamp but who wants to make that sort of long-term commitment? I keep thinking I’ll get up in a minute and get dressed.

And then I keep talking anyway, here in the dark, with the rain pattering on my awnings. I have these old white 1940s awnings on my house and they are my favorite part. I’m so glad no one saw fit to take them off.

I looked in my Photos app for pictures of my house, entering, wait for it, “house” in the search bar, and the very first photo was of me topless. I wish I had any explanation for you. Anyway, here are my awnings, not m’boobs. I am behind that smaller window to the right right now. See me waving, a year and four months later?

This photo also appeared under the category of “house” and it makes a heap of sense.

So did this. I feel like this app isn’t working properly. Let’s try another word.


Look! That actually makes sense! I loved that phone case. Do you buy many ridic phone cases, use them for awhile, then buy other ridic phone cases? Is that just me?

Also falling under the category of bunny …


Okay, one more and then I’ll go, for real. “Pop.”

Ohmygod, this was on my birthday in like 2014 or so. BRF Alex, Griff, and baby Ryan at the food truck for lunch.

Oh, dear.

Stalking my mother at the movies, circa 2015.

Well, that was interesting for no one but me. But now I can go and you can tell me what I was up to when you joined us, creeping into the room and finding a folding chair in the back.

Type at you tomorrow, with my bandaged finger. Lord knows I give and I give [wipes hands on apron dramatically].

[Signs off dramatically]
[June, dramatically]

Sometimes I waste the precious hours of life on Facebook. And when I’m there, I speak with those of you who waste the precious hours of life reading this blog.

Together, we came up with a blog idea we’re going to iterate today. Am I using “iterate” correctly?

Family stories. Like, in my family, there was this one time that my Uncle Leo’s brother, Bob, (apparently they were really into three-letter names in his family) and Bob’s wife, Lana, got a pool.

I believe it was my cousin Katie who finally blew up over this detail. Because my Uncle Leo said to her, “Did you hear Bob and Lana got a pool?” and then later that day someone said to her, “Hey, Bob and Lana got a pool” and then the next day her grandmother said, “Did you hear Bob and Lana got a pool” and—

—just for the record, never once was I invited to that pool.

Anyway, finally my cousin Katie was all, “OH MY GOD I KNOW THEY GOT A POOL.”

So that’s become our saying whenever you hear something 47 times in our family.

In Ned’s family, they were all going to a restaurant or something, and their grandmother saw someone had parked right on the parking lines.

“Look at that,” she said. “They ruined it for everybody.”

His family loved this dramatic statement.

I have to tell you that TO THIS DAY, when I see someone parking stupidly and getting on my line so I have to get out the passenger door, I think, You ruined it for everybody.

I’ll tell you one more and then I will go to work so I can make biscuits. Wait. The cats do that. Maybe we could switch today and I could make biscuits and they could copy edit things. Catty edit. I really need to get out more. Maybe to a pool. Does anyone have one?

Years ago, on this blog where you waste the precious hours of your life, someone told me about how in her family, they were all gathered in the hospital, because the storyteller’s father was quite ill. The priest came, from their church, and suggested they all go into the hall to pray.

See. I am already giggling telling you this.

The storyteller, her sisters and her mom all knelt in the hallway with the priest, and in an unfortunate turn of events, the mom


expelled some gas as soon as she kneeled. She jumped up, turned her white patent-leather shoe this way and that, and said, “These darn shoes.”

She blamed it on the shoes! It was such an excellent save!

Naturally the storyteller and her sisters died right there.

It’s my favorite story of all time. I realize this makes me not lofty, and I had to disabuse you of the notion that I am lofty, attitude toward Joann Fabric notwithstanding.

So now tell us your stories. Don’t ruin it for everyone. Tomorrow I’ll write a post on Bob and Lana’s pool.


I just watched the cat jump clean over the top of the dog. The cow jumped over the moon. It was amazing and no one saw it but me, just like that time I was driving home from college and saw the Northern Lights.

Milhous does think Edsel hung the moon. I saw Mil standing on his back legs earlier this morning, rubbing his face on Edsel repeatedly. I see this often in the morning when they go out together for their constitutional, but every time I grab the camera to take a photo out the window, Mil immediately catches on and I can never capture it for you.

I like how our phones have become “the camera.”

Anyway, hi. Man, am I hung over from that Super Bowl. Oh, sorry, from “The Big Game.” Did you ever notice that companies have to call it that? Also, I am not remotely hung over, and I do not care about “The Big Game.” Who won?

Who was in it?

I got a lot of stuff done this weekend. I’ve been complaining since last winter that every winter coat I have has something wrong with it. You stick your hand in one pocket and it’s not even a pocket anymore; the lining is ripped straight through. You try to button another and the middle button is gone. Always the middle button so you can’t fake it.

So I gathered a bunch of them up (I still have a ski jacket that has no flaws, so don’t worry that I’m freezing to death. Also the high today is 71, so…)

(The South. Confederate flags, but also sometimes 71 in February.®)

SO I GATHERED A BUNCH OF THEM UP, and took them to the crabby alterations guy at the outdoor mall near my old house. I’d been there with Ned in the past, when he was having work things altered. That was the only way I knew alterations guys even existed.

“You have button with this?” the crabby guy asked me. Of course I don’t have the button. I don’t even know when it fell off. If I knew that, I’d have swept it up and sewed it back on myself.


See. I just figured alterations places had every button you’d ever need. But it turns out when you have vintage coats, KIT—and I like how I blame Kit for owning a vintage store and forcing me to go in it and buy coats—the buttons are all rare and special and the point of my story is I hadda go to the Joann Fabric, get buttons, and come back.

I have only ever been there one other time, and that was to get fabric I deeply regret for recovering my kitchen chairs. I bought a light fabric that the cats have already made claw marks in, and who ordered all these cats? I blame Kit.

Their damn gray fur shows up on the light fabric Joann sold me, and the whole situation is a fiasco and soon I’ll have to re-recover them using Rhianna’s face. Rhi-Rhi. Did you get that? Is there anything more annoying than those gossip sites using nicknames for celebrities like they actually know them? Calling Madonna Madge particularly grates, but Rhi-Rhi is the all-time worst. I wouldn’t read those sites but Kit forces me.

So I drove to Joann Fabric, my old stomping grounds, and it turns out there are all sorts of annoying women there who get right in your way as they stampede for the glue gun section. I can’t think of a place I fit in less than Joann Fabric, unless you place me in a silent meditation retreat.

Or at the Super Bowl.

A Monster Truck rally.

A meeting of the empaths.

Okay, a lot of places I wouldn’t fit in. Shut up. Still. What makes anyone buy fake flowers and glue guns? Fake flowers and glue guns say, “I’m about to create a monstrosity.”

“When you arrive at my door, a fake-flower wreath the size of your dilated cervix will greet you jauntily.”

Despite all my mocking of Joann and her fabrics–and is there any “I make fake flower wreaths” name more than Joann? Anyway, despite my snobbery, I got riveted by the button section, which I was hoping had at least a FEW clitorises, but no.

Oh my god, there were shiny buttons and patterned buttons and shapely buttons. There were purple ones and silver ones and butt-butt-buttons galore.

About 50 women got in my way while I was looking. This might be because I spent 20 minutes being riveted by buttons. And they were being button-skis.

Finally, I got the right size—the crabby alterer told me to be sure to get buttons as big as my old ones. I took one with me that I made him rip off my coat so I could compare.

Then I had to stand in an interminable line while each fake-flower-buyer had a coupon or a complaint or couldn’t figure out the slide-your-card-into-the-thing checkout sitch.

Average age of Joann Fabric customer: 672. “Why, back in my day, I traded wheat for buttons.”

As I got in my car to return to the cranky alterations store, I decided I was going to try to drive back there on my own, without asking my camera. See, what I did was, I tried to retrace my steps there.

I know those of you with an actual sense of direction do this without thinking about it. My friend MaryBeth used to be able to tell me which direction we were facing any place we were in LA. I’d ask her as a little test. “Northwest,” she’d say, like she just knew in her soul.

Eventually she hipped me to the fact that the water was west. And hills were…


Now I can’t remember. But it came in handy at the time. The water was west! Of course it was! It made sense once she said it.

Anyway, the point is I did it. I DID IT! I got from a part of town I rarely go to all the way back to the mall near my old house. Oh my god!

I was so proud of self I called my mother on my camera. Told her the whole story, leaving out the button/clitoris joke because I just made it up today.

She paused. “Hasn’t that mall been there the whole time you’ve lived in Greensboro?” she asked.


“See. This is why I have low self-esteem and make poor choices,” I said to her, stopping off for a fried-chicken sandwich before I got back to the crabby alterations store.

Geez. Way to be supportive, MOM. I feel like Margaret Thatcher’s mom would have been all, Good job, honey! This is why I’m not prime minister of the United States. Also because political things are boring. But mostly because my mother does not support my crowning achievements. I should make her a huge fake-flower wreath using giant chrysanthemums and clitorises that she’d have to hang when I came over.

Well. I meant to talk about something else entirely today but I see I got off on a tangent and now I have to go to work.

Button up your overcoat.

Did you ever see that one time Joe Namath was drunk on TV and that reporter was trying to interview him and she was pretty and all, so Joe Namath kept leaning into her space and said, “I just want to kiss you” and I think he got in trouble but really how much trouble did he get into because athletes can do anything including jumping out at their ex-wives in the dark and turning their necks into Pez dispensers, so.

Did you see that, ever? About Joe Namath?

Well, it happened, trust me, and that’s how I feel every time Milhous is running around here being cute. Because, unlike the rest of us up in this bitch, Milhous is in his prime, and he’s forever batting at the water as it comes out of the pipe, or chasing a bottle top like it’s interesting, and I’m just so charmed by his beige self that I find myself lurching after him saying, “Come here. I just want to kiss you.”

And like the pretty woman interviewing Joe Namath, the answer is no.

Anyway, I got my answer from my doctor and am now officially annoyed with doctor. Because remember how I went there for an ovarian cyst, and she was all, “That big one is fine, but there’s a new little one that’s probably okay but I want to test your blood for cancer.”

Remember how she said that and scared the shit right out of me?

So I got a blood test (it’s called a CA-125) and it came back fine. I scored a 5. If you score anything above a 38, you’re in big trouble, mister. But I didn’t. They exclaimed over how low my score was. So thanks for scaring me.

Then she said, Oh and in that ultrasound to check out your ovaries, we saw a little fluid, just a trace, up there in your uterus. We want to biopsy it for cancer.

And it scared the shit right out of me. Right the hell out of me the shit went, with a little shit bag and a little shit song about hitting the shit road.

So I had the enormously painful test that scared me, and then the doctor’s office, who when you call and get the recording talks about all that compassion for women, that compassion for women office did not call me with results. “It’ll be back in one day,” they said. Three days later I’d heard bupkis. Oh, take your time. I can think about lots of other things.

So finally yesterday I called because I was tired of hanging out on tenterhooks, and they were all, “She said to tell you we found mucus and blood, but no cancer.”

See. Has she MET me?

“Well, what does that mean?”

“It’s fine.”

“So, you told me about finding mucus and blood but that’s fine?”


THEN WHY TELL ME. If it’s fine, why tell me? Why do I need to know that? Don’t tell me anything except, It all looks good, June. Give me that one rush of relief after three-plus months of fear, COULD you?


I feel like I was told that to say, see. We really did see fluid up in there. It was like, We were right.

I AM A SCARED PERSON. Stick to “things are good” or “things are bad.” Don’t muddy the waters. Don’t muck the fluid.

The good news is, I’m fine. Other than being riddled with fluids I don’t understand.

Meanwhile, I also called to follow up about Iris, who I’m sure I’ve mentioned hate hate hates taking medicine with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns. I think because she’s blind and has no clue why her formerly nice owner is now shoving something bitter into her gullet.

If you’ve never pilled a cat, imagine a very jumpy angry collection of 20 pointy razor blades six inches from your face being fussy while you have to GET IN THE THROAT OF IT.


All her tests look good except for the test for pancreatitis, which isn’t back yet. And of course that’s the one we want, because that sort of tells us, Oh, it’s just pancreatitis and not



So we wait. Iris finally ate last night and this morning, as she has been on the anti-nausea pills that I have shoved into her angry blind face several times now. She mostly wants to eat the other cats’ canned food, and at this point I say fine. Just eat something.

The other news is oh my god I slept like the dead last night. So hard, I slept. Good gravy. I was gonna throw caution to the wind and have a split of celebratory Prosecco after work, but something was up at the Ghetto Lion and there were lines out the door like we have here when it’s gonna snow and I got annoyed and left and had water instead. Wooo! Celebrate good times, come on!

I’d probably just have a migraine today anyway had I had Prosecco, so.

That sums me up, and I plan to celebrate this weekend. What should I do? Keep in mind I just paid $560 for a vet bill for Iris, a bill I want to pay off immediately because I charged it and want it off my card the way you want to get a taffy wrapper off your hands. So think of something low cost.

Thanks for being so kind and supportive while Iris and I go through this stupid time in our lives. I still have to have those ovarian cysts removed and if that doctor says anything to alarm me I will throw them at her like we’re in a water balloon fight.

Had it-ly,

I still don’t have the results of my biopsy yet, and it’s been all I can do to not think about it, so what I’m enjoying are the near-constant “Any news?” queries. That’s helping. Yep.

Fortunately, there was a lot of work to do at work yesterday and also I had a hair appointment right after, which was going to keep me occupied for several hours and yay.

Except I didn’t go.

I went home at lunch, as I am wont to do. I always come home to let Edsel out, who by the way almost never really wants to go out, but since I make a point of coming home to let him out instead of bonding with my coworkers over hummus or whatever they do at lunch, I force him to go out, which if you think about it is all ridiculous.

It’s like how Oreos makes Cookies-and-Creme flavor Oreos.

Anyway, what I usually do is throw Blu for Edsel during lunch, which means then he actually wants to go out, and at some point in his fetching he stops, with Blu in his mouth, and lifts his leg on a tree and then I feel vindicated for coming home to let him out to pee.

Oreo-flavored Oreos.

But yesterday when I opened the back door to play with Eds, there was blood all over the steps. A lot of it. It had grass in it.

Iris has been disinterested in eating the last two days, and I figured it was cause I’d refrigerated her food. I was in some sort of online discussion somewhere about cats, and this is the sadness that is my life. In said chat, someone asked, “What and how much do you feed your cat?” and I realized I feed mine a lot more than other people. I was giving each cat a can in the morning and a can at night and then kibble all day.

Lily is too fat to jump on the dryer to eat, so I wasn’t worried she’d overeat, but in another Oreo-flavored Oreo moment, right then I knew she was fat because I gave her too damn much food when I hefted her up to her dining dryer. Cafe du Kenmore.

So now I’m giving them half a can each per day.

Iris gets special $97-a-can food for her irritable bowel/stomach cancer (they aren’t sure which it is and the only way to tell is, wait for it

a biopsy).

I started giving her just half a can, then refrigerating the remainder and then because you know how I am, the next meal I’d open another can and say, OH GODDAMMIT and then put half of THAT in the fridge, so mealtime after mealtime, Iris was getting chilled food.

I even heated it in the microwave a bit and she wasn’t interested. “She really hates chilled food,” I told myself.

And because I’m distracted or living in denial, I wasn’t concerned. Until I saw the blood on the steps.

Because yesterday morning, after she didn’t eat, she wanted out, which is not like her anymore. Iris rarely asks to go out, and if she does she just hangs on the patio. And sure enough, after a few minutes yesterday morning, she wanted back in. Milhous was in as well, splayed across my bed like he was sleeping it off.

So that’s why I knew, when I saw the blood on the stairs at lunch, that Iris had thrown up blood.

And here’s what I did. I just went numb. It’s like I have a candy coating right now, but one of those bad candy coatings, like Spree.

I’m no longer scared of the biopsy phone call. And I haven’t cried about Iris. I haven’t done anything but sort of robotically do what I have to do.

The vet’s office was at lunch, natch, but to their credit the vet herself called me right after lunch. I like that place. The Cat Clinic on Battleground, if you’re local. Miss Jackson, if you’re nasty.

They told me to bring her in at 4:00 and I thought, Oh no.

Since August, I’ve been nothing but car accidents and mysterious illnesses. My calendar at work has stickers at the back of it that you can use to remind yourself of eye appointments, birthdays, etc., because God forbid you just write them down there. The point is my January is covered in




stickers already.

“I’m afraid to tell [Boss] that I have to go to the vet at 4:00,” I told Wedding Alex.

As soon as I said that, Boss walked by. I told her what was up. “I know I’ve been nothing but emergencies for months,” I began.

“I don’t think you’ve taken enough time off, with all the things you have going on,” she said.

I have the good kind of boss.

So at 3:30 I robotically went home, got poor Iris in the carrier, and took her to the vet. They pressed on her stomach, and

“MEOW!” she screeched. She did that several more times as they pressed other places. She’s usually so quiet. They could tell she’s bloated, too. They took her in for an x-ray.

When they were gone I sat there like an animatron that was out of batteries. I got a text.

“Any news on your biopsy?”

I ignored it.

They don’t see a mass in her stomach, which is good, but the lab tests will tell us more. I wonder if the same lab that’s looking at my girl’s blood is also looking at my uterus? I wonder if her blood and my uterus are all, Heyyy! What’re YOU doing here?

So that was $560 I hadn’t planned to spend, two days before payday, which means I had to fricken charge it and I’d had my cards at zero point zero, and was just thinking, Oooo, I can have savings again this pay period!


My theory is her blood work will come back fine, and I still won’t know for sure what’s wrong with her. She’s on pain medicine and an anti-nausea drop, but she wouldn’t eat again today. Eventually I got her to nibble at a few pieces of the other cats’ food, which she isn’t supposed to have but she hasn’t eaten now in 48 hours at least. So.

Every time she sees me she runs away from me, with her fluffy trousers wisping, because she thinks Ima give her medicine. This is not how I want things to end with Iris.

That about sums it up and I’m certain you’re glad you came to this funny, funny blog today.


I had my biopsy yesterday.

Let’s review my stupid health in case anyone missed my last poignant post on it. [Cue dramatic music.]

Okay. First, in late October, I started feeling like I have to pee all the time. I went to my regular doctor twice and the urgent care once, all to be told, “You don’t test positive for a UTI but here are various antibiotics anyway.”

They didn’t work. Convinced self I had bladder cancer. I mean super extra for real convinced self.

Then I went to a urologist, who said, “You probably don’t have bladder cancer. Here’s some old lady cream that will probably help. Also, avoid these foods and take these supplements.”

I started to do so, but in December I saw blood in my urine. Super extra supersized freaked out and died of bladder cancer IN MY MIND and didn’t tell anyone, but went to a second urologist, who gave me a CT scan and a rather unpleasant test for bladder cancer that I didn’t tell anyone I was having because I didn’t want to ruin Christmas.

Did not have bladder cancer. But, “We found a rather alarming ovarian cyst and you need to get that checked out right away with an OB-GYN.”

Immediately got ovarian cancer IN MY MIND.

And when I tell you I got these cancers in my mind, I mean I spent hours online, reading chat rooms and forums, sweating and weeping and carrying on.

Meanwhile, I had my scheduled mammogram, which if you’ve been here awhile you know is my annual week of fretting and anxiety and panic and this year it was but a blip. So. Silver lining. Got results of that same day and it’s good.

Back in ovary world, I had an ultrasound and a blood test, because while the ORIGINAL giant cyst looked fine, of course they found ANOTHER cyst they were suspicious of. It had a very sneaky expression and hung around dark alleys.

Bloodwork came back good. No ovarian cancer. “But we did see something weird in your uterus during the ultrasound. You need to come back and have a biopsy for endometrial cancer.”

That’s when I just started to get mad. Meanwhile, I still have days I have to pee all day. “I don’t think it’s gynecological,” said my OB-GYN, who is, you know, board certified and therefore probably right. “I think the old lady cream will work better the longer you use it,” she said.

Which means if I’d have just stuck with the first urologist I wouldn’t be going through any of this.

Between getting my bloodwork back and going in for this biopsy, I had my annual eye exam because of course I did. “We have a new machine now that tests for eye tumors. Are you interested in getting that test?”

I said yes, fully expecting I’d have to have an eye biopsy or something, but all was well other than my eyes got dramatically worse this year. If you are a contacts person, my prescription went from -5.25 to -7.00. Hello, darkness, my old friend.

So now that I’m Mary Ingalls and any minute now Ima meet Adam who will get his sight back and also ADAM NEVER EXISTED IN REAL LIFE and also I DON’T LIKE THE SHOWWWWW. NOT THE SHOWWWWW. Because they invent people like Adam and Albert with his opium addiction and it pissed me off.


So yesterday was the biopsy. I wasn’t as scared as you’d think, because the doctor has said it’s “probably normal” and that I “shouldn’t worry.” Which. I mean. That’s my hobby. So.

But really. And people were being very kind, offering to go with me and calling to check on me, which actually made me sort of more nervous, because then it seemed like a real biopsy and not a “probably normal” test I was just taking, no big deal. People called and texted with their worried voice and it made me anxious. Mostly I told people I didn’t wanna talk about it and tried to carry on and I drove there yesterday not all that terrified.

So when the doctor entered the room yesterday, the first thing I told her was they’d spelled my name wrong on the giant screen on the wall that was going to show me my innards, and to go ahead and send the bill to let’s say June Gardeens instead of June Gardens. Everyone here knows how they misspelled my name, including the bitch-ass who follows me on Instagram and then complains about me on Reddit and tells people my IG handle, which pokes fun at the oft-mistaken spelling of my last name.

To sum, you are a bitch-ass, person on Reddit.


“Did you take ibuprofen beforehand?” my doctor asked me, and that was the first I’d heard I ought to. “No,” I said, “as this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

They offered to get me some but I hadn’t eaten and didn’t want to feel bad.

First mistake.

Then we got ready, and why are OB-GYNs so interested in you scooching down? Scooching down is a big turn-on for every OB-GYN. They aren’t happy till you’re perched precariously at the edge of that table.

“We need a different speculum,” she said, and I imagined myself as Large Vadge Marge. The grand opening.

“Is it because I have enormous parts?” I asked, and everyone laughed. It was the last time any of us would laugh, ever.

By the way, when 29 people need to be in the room, perhaps you should be more nervous.

In fact, they needed a SMALLER speculum, so why don’t you run and tell THAT, Reddit bitch-ass, whose vadge serves as a rest stop for the Green Giant.

“Now we’re going to expand your cervix,” she said, and



Oh my god, OW!

Dude. I don’t know what they were doing down there, and I could have looked on the giant screen but didn’t want to, but all of a sudden that pain was a 10. Not a hard 8. Not I-can-handle-this-let-me-breathe. A 10. Oh my god.

I was literally writhing on the table.

“I’ll stop for a minute so you can gather yourself,” she said. To use an expression of my mother’s, she was as calm as a cucumber.

Mother FUCK. I tried to calm down, to become a cucumber, and we started again.

“STOP! Please stop! Are you almost done?” I asked.

She wasn’t.

“I can get a block,” said a nurse. And whatever a block was, yes, I wanted her to get it. Get a block. Get Jenny from the block. Get a blockade.

And guess what. Once I had “a block” it was fine. It HURT, but it hurt like a 7 or 8 and not an unbearable 10. Geez Louise. While I was lying there, I formed the thought, “Was this worth getting a Dyson dryer?”

A: Yes. Totally.

So the results will be in in a day or two, but she said, “I feel pretty good about this” and that’s reassuring. I felt crampy and traumatized all day but that was it. A little spotty.

In summary, I’ve had five tests for cancer since December. Once I’m in the clear for endometrial cancer, I can get my damn cysts out. Apparently when you’re my age you shouldn’t be having cysts and they really should get out. I’m the Amityville Horror house and my cysts are the Lutzes.

Oh, and I saw your votes on my Stitch Fix, and maybe I should tell them to go down a size. I’ve been working out with a trainer for a while now, and I think I weigh like five pounds less, but I might be smaller anyway. I agree I need fewer black and gray things.

I’m keeping the pants, though. I liked the pants. I like any pants you can just pull on. Which by the way, mom, does not count as elastic-waist jeans.

When I was young and cute my mother told me that when I was her age I’d opt for elastic-waist jeans and I said I never would and so far I never have.

We bet on it, but I can’t remember what age she said I’d be when I finally acquiesced, and I also can’t remember how much we bet.

But also too, I was in the back of the car once when my parents made a bet that by the time I was their age (27), there would be people living on the moon. My father said there would be. My mother said there wouldn’t. I once again don’t recall how much money they bet, but I know my father lost that bet.

Or did he…? [Cue mysterious music.]

June, who doesn’t want medical advice that begins, “You should really…” or “Your doctor doesn’t…” or really any medical advice at all. Or really any advice, ever. Okay, thanks. Glad we had this talk. Bye.

My new Stitch Fix box came on Friday, and I was prone on the couch with a cold. I didn’t even feel well enough to look in it till Saturday, and then Sunday I forced self to shower and pose in all the clothes for you. I tell you this to offer the disclaimer that I look fairly dung-ish here, and please forgive.

Without further hairdos, let’s look at this month’s Stitch Fix, shall we?

Hi. I’m 700 years old.

Here is the first shirt. It’s black with red and gray little doo-dads on it. And just because someone always misses it, please note the price of each item is at the top of each little voting square.

Speaking of which, two of the Real Housewives of Orange County were either fired or quit, and they both made Instagram announcements this weekend saying, “It’s been a great run, but it’s time for me to move on” and you have no idea how many people left comments saying, “Are you quitting the show?” “Are you coming back to the show this season?”

It’s a wonder I haven’t just stroked right out.


Next up is another top. It’s velvet and asymmetrical.

I don’t know why I keep posing like this. Why doesn’t someone stop me? I think I have another view of this shirt, too. Hang on.

Oh, hi! Are you here?

Let’s vote.

Now on to some pants. I know you’re panting to see them.

Again, who lets me pose like this? This is why I should not live alone. No one to reel me in.

I realize the best part of life is the thinner slice, and it don’t count for much, and I also realize this isn’t that good of a view of the pants. I will show you MORE pictures of the pants along with the last sweater in our selection this month.

Hi. I’m incapable of holding my arms in a normal fashion.
Oh! Are you STILL here?

So let’s vote on both. By the way, the sweater has those little holes so you can stick your thumb through.

Please vote as soon as you can, because I’m not really sure how Stitch Fix works on business days, but if I got this Friday it means I have to return it today. I think. So.

Thanks for voting. You’re making a difference in the fabric of our nation.


My young, beautiful neighbor died last night. It’s so awful.

I’ve never mentioned her to you specifically–she lived across the street. Do you remember the neighbors who saved that hurt squirrel and named it Nutterbutter Bob? She lived in that house. She was the girlfriend of one of the young sons who lives in the basement temporarily–they were set to move this week, in fact. I gave them my old couch and she was so strong, I remember, helping him carry it across the street like it was nothing.

I think she was in her 20s. She had blonde hair and was always happy. She wore short skirts and Ugg boots and looked magnificent in them.

My neighborhood is very precise. The front of it ends with a fairly major road. The back of it is cut off by railroad tracks. And on either side is a meadow. That’s what one of my neighbors called it. She moved here from Boston recently. “I live in the green millhouse that’s right next to the meadow.” I’d have called it a field or just empty lots, but I like “meadow.” Sounds nicer.

Anyway, so when I pull into my neighborhood, it’s three blocks exactly. And last night, there was a police car on the first block. “Uh-oh,” I said to my imaginary audience, which I guess is you.

Then there was another police car on the next block. The plot thickened for me and my imaginary audience.

When I got to my street, it was nothing but blue and red lights. It was blinding. This is not something you want to come home to. My neighbor, the one who adopted Nutterbutter Bob (he did eventually get better and was able to go off on his own again, which is good because he bit like a motherfucker, little ingrate) was on her lawn.

Normally I’d have left her alone and gone inside and peered out the window with my Benson & Hedges, but we made eye contact. “Is everything okay,” I asked, intelligently.

Yes. My house is surrounded by policemen and other emergency vehicles, including the coroner, but yes. Everything’s fine! Thanks! Good night!

“I think [girl’s name] is dead,” she told me. And right then, her boyfriend came out and confirmed that she was in fact dead. He was, as you can imagine, quite distraught. That’s when I slinked away quietly.

I know she had a lung and heart infection, and that she’d recently gone to the doctor about it. That’s all I know. Isn’t it awful? She was just so light and pretty and cheerful. Now she’s gone.

I went inside and made dinner (“made dinner.” I heated up leftover Hardee’s.) and then watched This Is Us (pull yourself together, Randall) and finally opened the Amazon envelope I’d gotten but had been too distracted to really note when I first got home. It was microfiber towels to clean my phone. So I grabbed my phone to clean it

and right then is when I discovered the 23949430402302394824923 messages from every neighbor I go to Friday dinner with. Oh my god, with the texts and the calls and the smoke signals and the singing telegrams on my phone.

“What’s going on, over there?” “Say, what’s all the trouble down your end?” “Why all the emergency vehicles?”

So I guess I never have to worry about being unnoticed here in this hood, anyway.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood


Occasionally, in the morning, after that initial very important trip outside to pee, Edsel likes to go out a second time, after breakfast, to take a leisurely sniff of the perimeter. He trots all around, snouting the things, to inform himself of what happened while he was sleeping. I figure what happens is nothing, but there is wilderness behind us so maybe the occasional possum occurs or what have you.

Anyway, he’s out there doing that right now, even though my Google machine told me that with the wind it feels like 13 degrees. He’s out there naked, unless you count his collar which can’t be doing much, sniffing the perimeter like it’s fun.

While I was waiting for the coffee to cook and Eds was out freezing his nethers just in case he caught Footnote du Possum, I noticed the light of my cool plate window reflected on the wall.

I also meant to photograph Milhous looking pretty on the table, but instead captured Milhous tormenting poor Iris, who never wants any trouble.

He’s such an ass. Also, can anyone else see that he has a cat head in his fur? I asked that when he was a kitten and everyone was all, no. Y’all still don’t see that cat head? Over there in his swirls.

Anyway, other than my pets being amusing today, the other news is (and brace yourselves) I have a cold. I know you’re paging backward in your Big Book of June Events. “Didn’t she just HAVE a cold in December?” and YES. The answer is yes. I went two winters with no colds, and now I have to have two colds in one winter. Goddammit.

Yesterday I was in the sore throat phase and today it’s The Sore Throat Continues with special guest star Itchy Ears, feat. Slightly Sniffy.

I hope this won’t ruin my biopsy.

Oooo, speaking of things being ruined, last night I was watching Grace & Frankie–did you know a new season is out? God, I love that show. Lily Tomlin is the best. Anyway, I was right in the middle of that one episode where Bud acts like a nervous lunatic when


All the lights went out. And I’ll tell you what. If anyone bursts in here to murder me one day, I’ll be murdered right up, because my first reaction to any shocking thing is to just go blank for a moment.

Like, when I got rear-ended last summer. I sat there blank for a good 30 seconds. Then I got on the phone and started making what I thought were very efficient phone calls canceling things, when in fact I’d lost sight of what day it was and was canceling things I didn’t yet have to.

Anyway, that was me last night. I knew what day it was, witty cooper. But I drew a blank. I sat in the dark the way my mother’s Beagle used to do if you threw a towel on her head. “well. dis it. dis goldie lyfe now. she sit in darks.”

Beagles aren’t that smart. I tell you this as someone who had a Pit/Beagle mix. Remember the treat in the can story? (That old blog post contains a photo of me looking just awful. You know when you guys say, “You look better now, June”? I think, God, I know.)

Good lord, how did I get all the way over here? What I meant to say is that all the power went out last night, and I drew a blank. But instead we got into car accidents from aught 19 and Beagles and cans and my Real Housefrau of Greensboro look I had going 10 years ago.

So, the power went out last night.

After I sat blankly for my requisite 30 seconds, I stampeded to my police scanner app just like I was my gramma. The nice gramma. Not the gramma I turned into. The nice gramma had a big ol’ hefty police radio she kept on often. She would creep to her window to peek out if anything happened on her street, lit Benson & Hedges dangerously close to the gauzy gold-nylon curtains.

Almost immediately last night I was rewarded with police discussion about how all the houses in my little hood were out of lights. “Transformer is out,” one of them said, and I felt better about it being everyone and not just me. Like I wasn’t about to be on Hart to Hart, when someone cuts the power so they can murder someone in a mansion. I wasn’t going to be Miss Gardens in the Living Room with the Blank Look.

Then my police radio said it was a car accident. Like, maybe a car drove into the transformer? If I really think about it, I don’t actually know what a transformer is.

Speaking of which—and I guess we’re going for a potpourri of topics today at ramble of June—yesterday as the workday drew to a close, The Poet said to me, “The sun is setting later now. At this time of night, the sun used to shine right in my face, and now it’s not.”

I smiled thinly and pulled my chair up so I could lean in and look extra smug.

“You know, Poet,” I began, “the Earth rotates. And…”

And right then I knew. I didn’t really know why the sun was at a different angle. Like, did we rotate, or did the sun rotate, or was there something to do with an axis or the Axl Rose or something?

“This would have sounded a lot more condescending had I known the actual facts of why the sun’s in a different place,” I told her. Then I went meekly back to my work.

Back when we worked in the basement—I’m sorry, The Garden Level—there was a time of day we had to pull the blinds, and my boss, fmr., used to play this very grand royal-procession-sounding music during Pulling of the Blinds time. Those were the salad days at that place.

I’m not good with the science facts. Like, the sky is blue because something reflected on something? Or something? Oh my god, I have no idea. I blame Barry Gibb, which is where my head was during all science learning.

Anyway, I have to go, and I know you wish I’d have touched on more topics today but I did not and there it is.


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