Today, I got up, took my stupid Prilosec and started my half-hour countdown, fed everyone (I let Iris be a bad girl today, because Steely Dan hadn’t deigned to come home yet after a night out, so Iris got to eat up at SD’s dish like a rebel.

Eyeriss so bad. She need spank. heeeee.

Then, of course, SD let himself in and looked up at his dining establishment, astonished, but he did not kick her ass as I’d feared. I can never figure this cat out. Instead, I fed him over by Lily, and they both took that in stride), showered (she says, after the world’s longest parenthetical), made sure my stupid half-hour had passed and got my coffee all set, sat down here and was like,

Wow. I have nothing to say today.

Oh, I know!

Photo on 3-22-18 at 7.48 AM #2.jpgI got my hairs cut!

I think it might dry while we talk, it’s so short and shortie now, but let’s see what happens. You won’t BELIEVE what happens next. Click here.

My coworker did that to me yesterday. He didn’t cut my hair–I might have led with that. He works in our New York office now, but he’s back this week to do stuff in our studio, and he was all, “Oh my god, you guys, who has a banana? I learned the COOLEST thing about bananas.” No one had one.

We were all, Do you mean the thing where you hold it by the stem. We all said that with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth. Because Oooooo, Mr. New Yorker’s gonna burst in, thinking he’s all big city. With his banana stem thing we all learned years ago. We’re not in Papua New Guinea, dude.

“No, it’s something different! My brain literally exploded!”

“Your brain did not literally explode,” I pointed out, and quest for world’s popular-ist coworker rages on.

Anyway, he built it up in such a “click here” way that I swear 200 people are gonna stop working so we can watch Camilo and the Banana today. I mean, he built this shit up, so it better be good.

“Maybe he finally realizes you eat the inside,” my boss’s boss, fmr., said to me, as we strolled away.

…I’ve been scrolling through my photos, because I know I have a nice one of a bunch of coworkers holding up their bananas at some point, when it was Banana O’Clock at work one day. I can’t find it, of course, but I found a buncha racy ones of me in a pink bra, and who was I trying to impress, I wonder.

Anyway, I also found the following…

IMG_3307.jpgMy grandfather and me, petting a dog. That dog was Sam. I believe he set the template for me liking a medium-size, yellow mutt.

My grandfather would have been my age in that photo. I mean, he wasn’t three. I was three, and he was around 52. My age now. Just eat your banana and stop being clever.

IMG_6115.jpgMe, househunting for a place in Greensboro in 2008. We hadda take Talu on the search, because she was just a baby. She would’ve been four months old then. Lu.

The two-year anniversary of her death is tomorrow. Yay.

IMG_6117.jpgLu and me at this house. I remember walking in and going, “Ooooo!” like it was covered in diamonds or something.

We’re seeing a lotta Lu anus today.

img_6114.jpgThere’s the front of our Lu! Even back then she stood the same way. That Pitty way.

IMG_1455.jpgWhy’d Lu have to up and die? Like Mr. Bojangles’ dog? I hate everything.

When I was trying to find that banana shot, which really, I need to get over, I looked in the category of “people” and this interesting Brady Bunch board came up.

Screen Shot 2018-03-22 at 8.10.11 AM.png

Here’s an interesting June quiz. Well. “Interesting.” How many of June’s people can you identify? We’ll label them 1–25, going from top-left across. So, the mystery figure in blue, with the buildings behind him, is number one. The mystery figure in the lavender sweater, looking down, is number 25. The winner gets…


a cat bonnet! And by “gets,” I mean I’ll say you’ll get it and I will never send it. Start playing now!

Don’t you love days when I have nothing to tell you?

IMG_6237 2.jpg

Sadly, I’ve discovered my computer allows me to muck with my photos, a thing I hadn’t discovered previously, and now every photo you see will be all mucked. You’re welcome. Also, I took this in the romantic light of the screen. I do not have a skin condition. But there’s my nearly dry hair.

I gotta go. Ima take Edsel to daycare today, and here’s the link.

Talk at you.

What are you putting off?

I had a friend who, with her husband, went through some shit. When they were going through said shit, every time a bill came they just threw it in this one black garbage bag. Threw it in there and didn’t acknowledge it.

Just the thought of that makes me nervous.

Eventually, they got their lives in order, and decided to tackle the Huge Black Bag.

“We were horrified, but when all was said and done, we owed, like, 7,000 bucks or something. Had it paid in a year.”

So there you go. Also, they were young and it was the ’90s.

I’ve had a few dreadful tasks I’ve been putting off, although not nearly as awful as facing a garbage bag full of overdue bills. Last year, when I was destitute and got sick and tired of being destitute, I did anything I could to get more money. I freelanced my ass–as my friend Alicia would say–I took surveys for money, and I got this, like, Nielsen box for the internet.

Don’t ask me what the name of the company was, because I can’t remember any longer. Even though the company’s big black box sat behind my TV for a year. But for $60 a month, it monitored what I looked at online for marketing purposes. Since I rarely look at anything nefarious, I did it.

The reason I stopped was because I got caught up and didn’t need to sell my soul and privacy for $60 anymore, and also because every damn month I’d get an email and a text AND a call. “It’s time to recalibrate your box” or whatever, and recalibrating my box was a PAIN IN THE ASS. Am I right, ladies?

June’s blog. Come for the–oh, hell. There’s no earthly reason to come here.

Anyway, I realize it was basically getting 60 bucks for free, but it irked.

So I was supposed to return the box. Like, last October.

They’d sent me a self-addressed, stamped envelope, just like you had to send in to Freakies cereal or whatever, and they also sent instructions for how to send it back.

I never did. The puffy envelope and its instructions mocked me from my secretary. Eventually, I moved them to the top of my microwave, so I’d have NO CHOICE but to send that box back.

Yeah. You know what I had? A choice.

See. The whole setup included a box, and tangled wires, and I figured I’d get really angry tryina figure out which cords belonged to them, so I put it off. And off.

And off.

I also, as you know, from your Wall Calendar of June Things, have some confusion with the IRS and this corrected form I got–The Saga of Form 1098 and the Corrective Shoes–and I had to send in a bunch of paperwork to the IRS, and see above. I keep putting it off because I know I’ll get all frustrated, and who wants that when you can lie on your couch and see Ned on Tinder?

Yes. That happened last night.

I swiped left.

I just got ON Tinder last night, in attempts to put off doing the unpleasant tasks listed above, and look what that got me.

So I got up offen the couch and did my put-offs.

And you know what? Probably took an hour, and that included taking two trips with Edsel to the mailbox. The box-that-knows-all-your-internet-secrets (“Wow. She sure seems to enjoy her a makeup tutorial.”) had really clear instructions for their cords-n-such, and they’d even color-coordinated them to their logo color, which, nice.

And TurboTax, who is refunding a great portion of my cash money due to this confusion with my 1098, also had very clear instructions for getting papers to our good friends the IRS.

The only thing that held me up was I did one task, took it to the mailbox, went home and did the next task, and then I was all, ding-dang it. Now I gotta go back to the melon-farming™ mailbox again. (Use of “melon-farming” as a fake swear, (c)Faithful Reader Paula.)

But still. Maybe an hour.

Oprah once timed how long it took to replace the toilet paper roll: seven seconds. But how many people do you know (MARVIN) who place the toilet paper on top rather than just put it on?

How many things do you put off that, if you just faced them, wouldn’t be so bad?

That’s my deep thought for today. It’s the second day of spring, and here’s our current situation in North Carolina:

I guess nature is putting off spring. But Eds will never put off Blu.


Bonne Bell. Bewitching me since 1976.

My father used to have this trick egg.

It seems like such a dad thing to do, and my father doesn’t do a lot of those dad things, like have elbow patches or put memes up about how he’s going to murder all my dates.

Those always seem creepy to me. Same as the shrill “Open Letter to the Future Bitches Who’ll Have the Nerve to Want a Healthy Adult Relationship with My Son” essays women pass around on Freudbook or wherever.

Anyway, the trick egg. It was plastic, and it stood on end. It balanced. And on the first day of spring or fall, he’d always find some yahoo to dupe. “On the very first day of [insert season here], the earth is such that eggs balance. It’s true.” He’d sound so convincing.

“Hang on. Let me get an egg out of the fridge.”

I would not wish for you to know that I was among the first people duped by this. I was 24.

And, AND, I helped him sneak the trick egg into my poor grandparents’ fridge so we could fool them. I deserve everything that happens to me.

The point is, every first day of spring or first day of fall, not only do I have to get annoyed by Facebook updates that capitalize the season (It’s Spring! I love Fall!) (Well, you’ve ruined the season for me, USELESS CAPPER), I also find myself wondering if I have that trick egg.

I never HAD the trick egg, except for that brief afternoon in 1989, when I had it in the pocket of my black cable-knit Gap cardigan, on its way to my unsuspecting grandparents’ egg tray. Back when fridges had egg trays. And the Gap had cable-knit.

But somehow, the idea of the egg stuck with me. I thought of it again today, on the first day of spring.

5410894677_11387da84c_b.jpg(I also fell for what my father told me about those dolphins people hang from their rearview mirrors. “Are those dolphins just for looks, or are they air fresheners?” I wondered one day when we were driving around LA. “They’re a compass. They always twist around to point to the ocean,” he told me.


I was 35.)

There are some things in life that I keep wishing I had, things I didn’t usually have for very long. Barry Gibb once said in an interview that any time he passes a barbershop, he sort of wistfully wonders if they have Brylcreem. He KNOWS they actually don’t, and yet he wonders about it.

That’s how I feel about the egg, and also about this…


I owned two bottles of this. I’ve no idea why, other than of course I was seeking the liquid way to blush all day. Did someone give me both bottles? Was I on a shopping binge at 13? Because that’s how old I was when I owned this “cheek color.” Because it was gleamy. Never greasy. I looked just-blushed fresh.

I had a pink shade, and also a weird ginger, and I wore the weird ginger whenever I had on something brown. Which was often, because 1978. Am certain, in retrospect, that it did not flatter.

It’s safe to say I’ve owned a hundred blushes–sorry, CHEEK COLORS–since then, and I don’t even know that I LIKED this one that much, and yet it’s stuck with me. As has…


Aw, man. If I just had a little Bonne Bell “blushing gel,” just a pinch between m’cheek and gums, I’d be all set, man. That’s me: Subtile et durable.

I think my problem stems from my magazine habit in the late ’70s. I’d walk home from junior high (someone in the break room at work the other day didn’t know what “junior high” meant) in what I recall as always, always being the dead of winter (it was Michigan. There’s a 9 out of 12 chance it WAS winter), and there in the mailbox would be one of the many excellent magazines my grandmother had hooked me up with.


Hello. My lip gloss matches my earlobe infection. Won’t you enjoy my randy tie?

The very-originally named competition, ‘Teen.

I look sweater perfect. In more ways than ONE. Wink.

Do you know what I was doing when I holed up in our apartment reading Teen after school? I was getting more out of life.

I further received Young Miss. Grammy musta been blowin’ her pension on magazines for me, and was I ever grateful? No.

Hair goal: To look vaguely like a waffle cone.

She really was born to act. And she knew the right way to blow hyphen dry her hair. I saw Kristy McNichol once, at a Marie Callendars in the Valley. She looked pretty much like that. She was 42.

My grandmother even got me the hard stuff:

Christie Brinkley looks precisely the same today. She gets Ultherapy. So.

Aw, man, I wouldn’t even wait to thaw. I’d throw my puffy 1978 winter coat down, grab me some peanut butter and marshmallow fluff, and commence to reading every page of these magazines after school. Which explains your stellar math skills to this day, “Homework, Schmomework” gal. And I’m certain I read the stupid articles (Who could put down “How to have a great bottom”?), but what really got to me were the ads.

And lemme tell you something: The person who wrote those Bonne Bell ads knew witchcraft or something, because there wasn’t a straight girl alive in 1979 who wouldn’t sell BOTH ARMS to get her some Bonne Bell action. I’ll put that shit on with m’toes. Give me that Bonne Bell.

That copywriter knew how to bore into the soul of a teenager. It’s impressive work, really.

Has anyone seen my high-collared lace shirt? How about m’hairspray?

I remember wanting this the way I want a snow leopard now. It was going to be a party! For my LIPS! Do you even underSTAND how wonderful that was going to BE?

Eventually, I babysat enough horrific children that I had the two-fifty needed to purchase this necessary object. I can still taste it. It was a total party for my lips. Bianca Jagger rode a horse right across my lips.


THAT’S how big of a party it was.



Asked for it for my 13th birthday. GOT IT. Because it was important I get a super-dark tan in a hurry. I had places to go. Like the marshmallow fluff store. And the melanoma doctor.


I came into some money, like seven dollars or something, and walked all the way down to the GOOD drugstore on Court Street, there, next to Roy’s Steakhouse (The three people who read me in my hometown are all, yeah. Hell, yeah.) to get me some Ten-O-Six lotion. It was brown alcohol in a bottle. But those demons at Bonne Bell brainwashed me. My brain was washed in 70s-brown alcohol.

Oh, I’d dearly love to sniff a bottle of Ten-O-Six. I’ll bet it smells like 1978.

IMG_6190.pngI had all of them. Many, many children across Saginaw, Michigan were ignored, at a dollar an hour, in order to support my Bonne Bell habit.

And I know they make ’em now. But some asshole bought the company, and Dear Asshole Who Bought Bonne Bell:

You don’t fool us. Those lip smackers you sell at Target got NOTHING on the excellent flavors the real lip smackers used to have. Yours taste of plastic and ambition. Fuck you, buyers of Bonne Bell. You messed with our memories.

I don’t even LIKE Good and Plenty, and yet I still bought Good and Plenty. My best friend Beth had Bit-o-Honey, and I coveted.

So, I guess what I’m saying is, Bonne Bell is my trick egg. Bonne Bell is my Brylcreem. Hey, there are worse things. At least my lips weren’t hungry for flavor.

Bonne Bell Butler

June’s delusional world

I’m writing you on Sunday night because I have to call the IRS in the morning to figure out if I owe money or I’m getting money back, a thing TurboTax can’t seem to tell me, which makes my ass ache mightily.

Yes, June, that’s a shame. So, what’d you do this weekend?

Well, mostly I hung around Marianne.

In 1992, I moved to Seattle. I knew I wanted to leave Michigan after college, and they read more books there per capita, so I figured I’d fit in.

I did.

I got a job a few days into my move there, by talking up the guy who helped me open a checking account. “I know they need a receptionist on 12. You want me to make some calls?” And a stellar career answering phones on the 12th floor was born.

One of the people who worked with me on that 12th rung of the ladder to success invited me to go to a rugby game with her on a Saturday morning. Anyone who’s read me awhile (See: All of you) knows how often I get up on Saturday and seek out rugby. But I was new in town

and completely desperate for friends. So I got up at some ungodly hour, maybe even 10:00, and went to a damn rugby game.

“We’re going to stop and pick up my friend Marianne,” the woman from the 12th floor said to me. I hate it when you have plans with someone and they throw someone else in like that. In my MIND I’d psychologically PREPARED for it to be just us. But I pretended to be a normal member of society and said okay.

Turns out, Marianne was fairly new to Seattle, as well. And as we stood on that cold rugby…field? Is it a field? Hoooo care. Marianne looked at our other friend getting all into rugby, and said to me, “You wanna go back to the car and drink all the beer?”

And we did. The end.

From then on, we spent every ding-dang weekend together, no matter what. There was a restaurant across from my apartment, and inexplicably it had a mechanical bellhop in front of it, with an arm that moved up and down, sort of guiding you into the diner. We had breakfast there every Saturday. I mean every Saturday.

I’ve no idea what the name of that place was, since all we did on Friday night was sort of drunkenly say, “What time?” and do the bellhop’s arm gesture.


Or even, “Oh, god, like, 1:00?”

Marianne and me, right after Kurt Cobain’s memorial at the Space Needle. I’ve no idea why we were so gleeful. I remember being devastated at the time. We were moody at 27.

She left Seattle a year before I did, to go back to North Carolina. At her goodbye party at Lai Lani Lanes, a Tiki-themed bowling alley we adored, I told Marianne that at my wedding someday (Step One: Get boyfriend), we’d find a way to drink a beer in a car during the reception.

She drove all the way from North Carolina to Michigan to come to my wedding, three years later. At the very end of the night, the band packing up, I sneaked into the kitchen of the B&B and grabbed two beers.

We drank them in the rental car, me in my wedding dress and ridik veil.

Anyway, now here I am, in North Carolina as well, and she’s an hour and a half away and we see each other like once or twice a year and it’s stupid.

On Saturday, I was running my usual errands: taking the kids to soccer, meeting with the prime minister, knitting socks, I texted Marianne. “Wanna meet in Winston-Salem right now?”

She did.

While I got groceries Saturday, my car made a pal.
I had no earthly reason to also go to PetSmart Saturday. Other than the important task of getting some strange. I LOVE YOU, HALF-A-PEACHY-FACE KITTY!

Anyway, since Marianne was able to drop everything and drive to Winston, off I went.


We’d sort of forgotten it was St. Patrick’s Day, and by “we” I mean clearly not old Kermit, up there, dressed head-to-toe in green. Marianne has always been more excited about life than I am.

My point is, we went to a restaurant, and they were shamrocking out, man. They even had hootchie-gootchie girls (TM, Ned’s mom) handing out Irish whiskey for free and everything, along with hats, shirts and sunglasses.

Marianne opted to take all of them.
I just went for the bowler hat. Because, bowler.

“We probably shouldn’t drink all of this whiskey, because we have to drive,” I old lady-ed.

“Oh, I wasn’t planning to,” doddered Marianne.

“I wonder how many St. Patrick’s Days we’ve spent together,” I said. For some reason, Marianne had, like, this houseful of friends who’d all come over from Ireland together. Their house was magically delicious. And not at all devoid of, you know, parties. Especially on St. Patrick’s Day.

Oddly, we can’t remember any of them. Hmmmm. What could it be? What.could.it.beeeeee that made us forget?

Anyway, our three sips of whiskey in us, we headed to our cars. On the way out, I saw a good-looking man I completely recognized, and we both stopped in our tracks because we clearly knew who each other was, but could not place. He was with a woman, so if he was one of my 39583030402 internet dates I’ve had over the past two and a half years, I didn’t want to stir up any trouble.

“Who was that hot woman in the bowler hat?” I mean. It was inevitable, right?

On the drive home, I was all,


Which means nothing to you, and anyone who actually remembers who Ron is gets a plastic green bowler hat.

He was Marvin’s bandmate. From, like, 2008. Marvin put an ad on Craigslist or something and this really nice guy, Ron, answered the ad, and every Sunday for years they would have band practice here at this house.

Every Sunday for years, I would therefore go to the movies and see some weird independent thing, and Ned and I used to say we MUST have been in the same theater at the same time, as a result, which is weird to think about.


I tried to find a photo of Marvin practicing with Ron, a thing I know existed, but instead I found the photo of the time I insisted you all call Henry, my cat, fmr., “Henri.”

Am delighted with self anew.


Ah. Here’s a crystal-clear shot of Ron and Marvin practicing. Pre-bookshelves. Pre-not-beige walls. Weird.

Anyway, the next day I talked to Marvin. “Ron thought that was you, but he wasn’t sure.”

“Is it because I’m so hot now?”

Marvin didn’t answer that. You’d think Ron woulda said, “Man, she’s clearly had Ultherapy.”


IMG_6176.jpgAnyway, I’m glad I had the brilliant idea to get together with Marianne, and that we had a good time even though we were done by, like, 7:00 rather than just going out at 7:00. It’s good to have people you can grow old with. Even though I’m getting hotter by the minute.


Soaring highs, devastating lows

Yesterday was a day of intense highs and lows.

Okay, yesterday I had a high and a low. But everything with me is intense.

I’ve already done my stupid taxes with TurboTax, and I owe every year because freelance. What I parTICularly love is paying taxes and having to pay TurboTax on top of that. And then every five screens they’re all, “Here’s a way you can pay us MORE money!” Yeah, thanks. Cause we’re all not stressed to the gills already, fucksticks. Lemme get out additional bones to toss your way.

The point is, despite buying a new computer this year and painting this room (both deductible), I STILL owed like $1,700.

Last night I got home from work to STILL NO ATM PIN (see yesterday’s riveting account of that), but I did get a letter that said, “Tax information inside.”

Now what,” I wearied.

Turns out, I got a corrected Form 1098, and I know you’re all nodding your accountant-ish heads. Ohhhh, yes. A 1098.

It’s a form that says how much you paid in mortgage taxes. And as usual, one mortgage company bought another, a thing that’s happened to me at least 4 times since I bought my house 10 years ago. Dear money-hungry people who buy other companies and inconvenience the rest of us: Eat dung.

So I don’t even think I took off my coat last night. I got right on TurboTax and clicked the “amend my form,” added the new info, and now I get a refund.

Someone at some point sat down and wrote that little song. Like, they thought it up and wrote it. And every kid’s sick day from then on would have that song in it.

So that was exciting, to go from owing to getting, and I made myself some celebratory popcorn for dinner as a result and


Broke a tooth.

I’ve never played those two back to back before, and just now noticed the losing theme is the winning theme, just slowed down. With a little “you’re a loser” downward slide to it.

So now today I probably have to have emergency dental work, and why, God. I’m a good per–okay, …yeah, okay. …I see why, God. You can stop now.

The other thing is, I called SunTurst, and I am leaving it “Turst” cause that kills me, and said, “YOU’RE KILLING ME OVER HERE” and the nice man I was speaking to in Jamaica (I asked where he was. Then I pictured, like, Taye Diggs talking to me) said, “May I ask, why did you need a replacement card, mon?”

“I was delivering blankets to the children’s hospital and there was a whiskey sour outbreak and I lost it,” I explained.

Turns out, when you just lose your card and it doesn’t get stolen? Your PIN stays the same.



Bonus-round high, though: Ned bought my Retin-A at the pharmacy the other night because I had no PIN.

It’s a roller coaster, over here.

That’s all I have to say on that topic, and I like how I act like I just covered one topic so far, like I just told you all you could ever need to now about sunflowers, and now I’ll go on to lint.

June starts a new topic. June has one subhead. Just like her topics.

Did anyone ever do something really rotten to you, and you were so taken aback that you did nothing at the time, and you’ve been telling that person off IN YOUR MIND ever since?

Many years ago, I invited several people to my home for a dinner, and one of the guests called me ahead of time. “Frankly, I didn’t want to come to this. But if I do come, I need you to do this and this and this.” She detailed things like, “Hide the cats.”

I was so shocked. Never in my life had I invited someone over and had them be so…not gracious. And all these years later, what I WISH I had said was, “I will spare you the agony of having to come to my home, now or ever.”

Instead, I hid the cats.

Have you ever had that? If so, what do you wish you’d have said? Because even now, I’m appalled that I let someone treat me that way.

I’ll talk at you later. I gotta shower and get attractive for the dentist. This is totally gonna ruin all my hot St. Patrick’s Day binge-drinking green-beer plans I had brewing. [Disclaimer: Have precisely zero plans for St. Patrick’s Day.]

Oh! Wait! I forgot!

Screen Shot 2018-03-16 at 8.35.12 AM.png

We finished our assessment, and Eds is a Protodog.

Oh, well. Thank heavens, June.

Screen Shot 2018-03-16 at 8.36.13 AM.png

Okay, once again they’re saying, “Y’dog’s a dunce, Joob,” but you know, since he’s likely a Carolina Dog? And they are the last of the wild dogs? It makes sense he’s kind of…a pioneer. He’s the Pa Ingalls of dogs.

Screen Shot 2018-03-16 at 8.37.56 AM.png

Here’s his little chart, listing his SAT scores. Community college, here we come. Good lord, the dog is me. Except he’s nice.

So there you go. I wish I could have also given Talu this test. I’d love to compare and contrast. Lottie probably wrote the test and did the HTML stuff for the website.

Okay, talk at you. I know you didn’t really want to come here and I need to hide the cats, so.


Ned and June Put Edsel to the Test

“I have an all-day meeting and I’m getting out of work early,” said Ned, and “early” for Ned means “a normal time to leave work” in my world. Remind me to never be the president of anything. Except this nonblog.

“Would you like to have dinner? I’ll be early, so you can eat like the elderly, as you like to do.”

Back when we were dating, Ned would call me at, like, 8:00. I am not exaggerating for dramatic effect. He’d work till 6:00 or 6:30, go to the gym, drive home and then call and say, “I am starving.” That noon salad just wasn’t sticking with him eight hours later.

How did I not bludgeon Ned to death every day for four years?

So, him calling me at 8:00 meant he (a) was going to go to a restaurant at that point or (2) make something. From scratch. “I’m going to start the water to boil beans.”

Really, how DIDN’T I bludgeon him to death?

What this meant, when we were dating, was I had to starve till 9:00 in order to eat with him, or I’d eat like regular people, at around 6:00, and then have to hear the appalled speech when I’d announce AT 8:00 ON A WEDNESDAY that I’d already had dinner.

Later, I researched love avoidance and said, Ohhhhh. Okay. (It’s one of the things they do. They busy themselves. Oh, I’m so consumed. I can’t possibly actually sit and give you my undivided attention.)

My point is, here was Ned, willing to feed me on a Wednesday at 5:30.

I know you’ve all been lighting candles and keeping charts, so you know that I’ve had an ATM card saga. While I was out volunteering to make smocks for the homeless a few Friday nights ago, I accidentally lost my ATM card when a giant vat of whiskey sours landed in my throat. It was such a phenomenon. It was like the Northern Lights, with sour mix.

It wasn’t even GOOD sour mix. The whiskey sours I get at the fancy hotel near me? They make their sour mix right there. The whiskey sours I got on Lost ATM Night was shot from one of those soft-drink guns. I blame the pinball. I was so up in it that I didn’t notice I was having 49 drinks.

Oh my god, anyway. So I finally got an ATM card from my bank, and when I called to activate the card, they said, “For your safety, a separate letter with your PIN will be arriving.”

You have got to be fekking kidding me.

So now I have this limp ATM card, which at least allows me to go back to my Jimmy John’s delivery habit, but little else. It’s quite confining–and this is Shamrock Shake season! I realize I could drive to the bank and get out cash like I used to with my mom in 1972, but if I drive to the bank at lunch, pretty much that’s my lunch hour, and I keep saying, Oh, I can scrounge up something at home.

Hang on. Ima show you my exciting June’s-ATM-is-useless food supply at the moment.

WOOOT! Is it sad that the most abundant thing is cat food? Yes, June. It is.
The telltale to-go container tells you where this story is going.

I said yes to dinner. “After, can you help me give Edsel some tests?!” I asked. Because that’s the kind of standup person I am. You’ve offered to buy me dinner, and my reply is, “Only if you do something else for me.”

“Of course,” said Ned, as he likes Edsel.

Truth be told, I don’t really like going to restaurants. It’s never been fun to me. I have on-and-off years of panic attacks, and restaurants are a trigger for my panic attacks, because you’re stuck there. You can’t dash out 10 minutes later without making a scene.

I’m not in a panic attack cycle right now, I’m just in my regular low-grade anxiety mode that I’ve been in since I’m 8. I had a giant swath of panic attacks starting when I was 19 and ending when I was around 21.

Then on New Year’s Eve 1999, I had another one on a ferry and was tortured with them for a few years, and I’ve been fine since. Knock all of the wood, please.

The point is, because when I’m having panic attacks, restaurants are among my least-favorite things, I kind of hate them all the time. I dislike a lot of things many other people seem to love: Christmas, travel, live music, babies, football, hugging.

But you saw my cupboards. I went to the restaurant last night. Got spaghetti bolognese. Because I’m watching my figure (turn into Queen Victoria’s).

When we got home, we commenced to giving Edsel another of the Dognition personality tests with which I am so obsessed. This time, we tested his memory.

The first two or three tests I gave him the other night insisted I have a partner, with the caveat “if you don’t have a partner, go to our blog.” Well, I’m already HERE and I already watched the introductory video and NO. I’m not going over to your damn blog. Which is what you all say every day, and yet here you are.

So, despite the world saying I needed a partner, sister did it for herself, and it was fine. But since I HAD a faux partner in Ned (you’ve said a mouthful there, sister), I decided to see if it was easier.

It wasn’t.

Testing area

The way Dognition works is they tell you what aspect they’re going to test that time, using a brief intro video from the guy who most likely invented this whole idea. “Do you want me to wear my hair like that?” interrupted Ned, while the shaggy millennial spoke.

“Shhh,” I said, then inwardly giggled at the idea of Ned with longish bearded millennial Williamsburg unicycle shaggy hair.

After the intro, they guide you to a page all about this particular test. You can either read the steps, or watch another video where they show you the steps. I kind of do both at once.

“Are those guys gay?” asked Ned, as we watched two millennial men play memory games with their trendy large dog who I promise you they refer to as a “rescue,” a dog inexplicably named Kai.

“Kai? Are they saying Kai? Oh, those two are a couple,” surmised Ned, who really isn’t as homophobic as I’m making him sound.

“SHHH. Ned, I’m watching how to do this,” I said.

And, see, there was our problem. Because while I, superior I, was busy learning how to test Edsel’s memory, Ned was too busy mocking the video, and when I got started, he had the


to tell me I was doing it wrong.

“What–why are you–you can’t LIFT the cup. That’s cheating,” Ned would say, having not paid attention to one of Kai’s gay owners LIFTING THE CUP during the video.

Meanwhile, here was Edsel.

dees too again. why dey not just go no contack?

Eds was SO not into our testing last night. Some of it had to do with Ned and me bickering, and some was the part where you’d show him a treat, put said treat under a cup, then wait as long as two and a half minutes before he could retrieve the treat.

Lemme tell you who 100% forgot treats were ever invented in 2.5 minutes. That would be old steel-trap Edsel, up there.

Screen Shot 2018-03-14 at 8.26.44 PM.png

In summary, Edsel’s memory sucks. They tried to be polite about it, but later in the description they talked about how wolves and feral dogs have to hunt prey for hours, and while sometimes the prey isn’t in site, these wild animals remember the prey’s general vicinity and keep hunting.

“Edsel doesn’t have this instinct,” they euphemized, pretending it was because he was so well fed at home that he didn’t need it. They can’t come out and say, Your dog is sort of a dunce.

“There is no need to worry! It is just one more piece of evidence that Edsel has his own cognitive style,” they said.

Yes. His own cognitive style. That’s it.

Yu heer dat, Steeeleee? Eyeriss dyeeeng. Own cognitiff style.

I gotta go. I have to get in the shower and get my own style going. I’ve started Retin-A and remember that scene in Sex and the City where Samantha shows up to Carrie’s book party with the raw face?

Veil down, I think.



It’s Pi day! This blog no longer has “pie” in its title! So now I’m just berserk!



12:50 a.m. it was, and some DAMN beep from some DAMN alarm was going off last night. It’d almost be better to die of the carbon monoxide or the intruder than keep getting awakened with these damn beeps. They always have to be “damn” beeps.

I threw the covers off and got up to investigate. This is one of those rare times I wish I lived with a man. “Go see what that is,” I could command, then roll over, because I am charming and why so alone, you think?

Anyway, I got up and figured it out, and then noticed a shadowy figure in my bathroom.

i shadoweee

It was Edsel. Pressed against the tub. The beeps had frightened him, and nothing protects you from horrifying beeps better than the side of the tub.

“Oh, Eds,” I said, and ran in there to hug his shivering self. Usually he sleeps with me, but I wasn’t in the MOOD for Edsel last night. I know. I was getting a migraine. Sue me. What did the poor thing do, with two dog beds, a couch, a spare actual human bed and two cat-clawed chairs to lounge on while I slept?

I think when I lock him out, he mostly just sleeps on the hallway rug half an inch from my door.

Speaking of Edsel, the other night it was snowing and sleeting and I still didn’t have an ATM card, so I was pretty much confined to the home like I was wearing an ankle monitor. Instead of perusing hard-core XXX and big-game-hunting videos as per usual, I checked out dog personality tests.

What’s sad is you know that is absolutely true, that I looked at dog personality tests over something more sinister. When did I get so boring? Say, June, try “birth.”

The test measures five parts: empathy, cunning, communication, memory and reasoning. We did the first three, and will commence to finishing maybe tonight. I was very busy going to see Blazing Saddles with Wedding Alex and her spouse and Ned last night.

IMG_6052 2.jpg
[Men and ex-men not pictured] “That is one clean breakup,” observed Wedding Alex, who incidentally can suck it.
For each assessment (we’re back to dogs now. Keep up), they show you a video and then give you a few tests, you tell them the results and they send back an assessment right away.

For example, I had to yawn several times in front of Edsel, then stare at him for 90 seconds to see if he’d yawn, too.


Turns out, Eds had the empathy. Further down on this result, they suggest perhaps I have a dog who gazes at me soulfully from time to time, and that this means he is “hugging” me “with his eyes.”

That dog does nothing BUT gaze at me. He has an iron grip of death on me, with his eyes. He Yokos me with his eyes. If eyes were arms, Eds would be an octo…pussy.

Then we tested his ability to communicate with me.


Basically, he’s a crappy communicator. The thing is, he knows a lot of words. I don’t think he struggles to read my cues, I think he just gets distracted by whatever’s exciting. He’s a lot like his mother.

Then we tested if my dog is trustworthy, or if he texts other dog moms after I’ve gone to bed.

Screen Shot 2018-03-12 at 8.53.07 PM.png

I had to lie treats in front of Eds, tell him to LEAVE IT, then either stare at him or turn my back or cover my eyes, depending on the test, to see if he’d eat the treat in the next 90 seconds. The only time he did was when I was staring right at him (after an agonizing 47 seconds of dog eye contact). According to Dognition, this meant he’s pretty trustworthy. And you know he is? If I leave food lying out, he rarely bothers it. Tallulah would have digested and passed the food before I walked back in. So.

So that was sort of riveting, and Eds got so many treats that he’s now Violet from Willy Wonka, so it was a win all the way around.

Further reports as developments warrant.

I leave you with nothing but my best wishes and the lingering scent of my perfume, but before I go, I wanted to mention I had to renew my damn WordPress subscription today. “But June, IIIIII get WordPress for free!” Perhaps you do. But in order to add riveting video like Edsel yawning and so forth, I have to be a premium member. So I just paid a hundy for the year.

“June, please never say hundy again.”

Anyway, of course you don’t HAVE to, and maybe you need every dollar, but I’ve added a little donation button in case you want to throw 11 dollars my way to say thanks for 11 years of this boring-ass blog, June (or, if you want to throw 22 or 33 dollars my way, you just change the “1” down there to “2” or “3” or “900.”) (I aim high). I made it 11 instead of 10 because PayPal does take a cut, man. A big annoying cut.

Another year of effing June. Not literally.


I’m so glad I switched to WordPress. It’s so much nicer over here, and I have, like, concierge service, since a very tolerant person who works there happens to read me, and all I do is just email her and she hates her life but then patiently helps me. We should all write her boss or something, get her promoted.

And speaking of WordPress, remember you do NOT have to add an email or even a name to comment. I know it says to add those things, but rebel, over there, rebellious one. Towanda.

This opens me up to all sorts of snotty anonymous comments, but all I have to do is block your snotty ass. The other day someone was a tad spicy, and I searched his or her IP address, and there were ALL SORTS of reports on this IP, including, “This person should be arrested.”

Guess who’s block-assed? That is totally a phrase.

Okay, Ima go. I have to go to work and copy edit things, and rush home and give my dog a personality test.

Say, June, try “birth.”



June is generally cranky.

It’s a cold, rainy, miserable Monday following stupid daylight saving, which is the perfect punctuation to a cold, rainy miserable weekend. Later today, it’s going to snow! In March! So then it’ll be a cold, snowy, miserable March Monday. In 11 years of living in NC, I have yet to encounter snow in March.

Right now, the rain is so cold that I took trash out to the bin, with the intention of rolling said bin to the curb, saw there was only one other bag in the bin, and said, “Fuck it.” That’s how cold and miserable it is. I’ll-live-with-trash-in-the-bin-for-another-week miserable.

I’m unsure if I’ve precisely expressed to you the not-pretty that is my weather.

And why’s it gotta be so goddamn early? What the Sam Philistine Fuck?

June’s blog. Come for the inspiration.

Anyway, when last we spoke, I’d had an unnecessary medical procedure guaranteed to make me look younger, which so far hasn’t kicked in. It hurts less, but mostly I have the agony of discomfort and none of the recaptured youth. In fact, with my broken toe–that is now on week 5 but is definitely getting better–I’ve done very little exercise and am starting to abhor self. I look even older and larger than when the weekend began.

Also, Edsel went to the vet Friday, and I say that like he said, “Taakking carr. Bee back soonz” but really I drove him. He had his bordetella, which is a shot dogs get so they can hobnob at daycare and in dog parks and at dog bars and dog sex clubs. It’s the condom of dog shots.

My point is, they weighed him at the vet and he weighs 50, which is an all-time high for the Edz. He weighs this much because we’ve gone on zero walks since The Toe Incident. I think I hobbled to the corner and back with him once or twice, but that’s it. I feel terrible about it, but what can you do? I can’t fekking walk.

So, today is out, because perhaps I didn’t mention the weather, but it’s poorly, the weather is. But tomorrow I’ll put on my folk fest shoes

How many shoes must a woman try on. Before you can call her a man.

and try to walk him at least two blocks. See if m’toe can deal.

…Just now, ridiculous Steely Dan asked to go out, and I say “ridiculous” because he IS ridiculous, and also because I asked him if he wanted to go out when I let Eds out in the yard for his morning constitutional, and I asked him again 20 minutes later when I let Eds back in, and both times he glowered at me from a foot away.

Then as soon as I got under Laila Ali


he started mowing and sounding pitiful and carrying on, so I got OUT from under Laila Ali


and opened the door.

He sniffed. Put a delicate paw on the cold metal threshold.

do steeelee LOOK like fan of watur?

Anyway, I understood his emotion, there, because in case I hadn’t driven it on home, it’s cold and rainy out. And miserable.

I got under Laila again


and seconds later,


For a big, hulking imposition of a cat, he has the girliest delicate meow. You’d think he’d be one of those Patty-and-Selma-meowing cats, all, MEOW. But he isn’t.

When I was a kid, we’d go to Rose Auto Supply to get gas. I liked going there because I liked the name Rose, and also, this ENORMOUS–I mean HUGE–guy would come to the window.

“Fill it up with regular,” my father would always say, and I never knew what that meant, but I also thought maybe he was saying, “Fill it up with irregular,” and that was even MORE compelling, but my point is, the gas-filler at Rose Auto Supply had




you ever heard on a man. He made Snow White sound butch. I was riveted by this anomaly, and in retrospect am certain I was not subtle in my fascination. Probably all kids were riveted by him, and I wonder if the advances in medical science could help that poor guy today, or if even now he’d be Squeaky Fromme.

I was similarly riveted by the waitress at Johnny’s Chick-Inn who had an arm tattoo. And the saleslady at Weichmann’s who had purple hair. No child would bat at eye at either of those today. But in 1968 in Saginaw, those were things to see, man. And why was my local downtown where circus characters all got work, I wonder.

My point is, I got up again and that gray bastard did the same thing all over, and now he’s wailing pitifully again in that squeaky Rose Auto Supply meow,

Photo on 3-12-18 at 8.18 AM #2.jpgand he can go fuck his own sleek self, is what he can do.

In case you wondered about my weekend, and who doesn’t. “I’d LIKE to begin work, but I just wonder what June did this weekend.” In case you wondered, I had a little personal challenge this weekend.

yuuu DID?

As you know, from having your finger on the pulse of June and all her events, I lost my ATM card last Friday due to whiskey sours that were FORCED down my throat, and I had to order a new one. ATM card, not throat.

At some point last week, I drove to the bank and wrote a check to Cash like it was 1969. I took out a hundred dollars, bought exactly $80 worth of groceries (I did that thing where I added up groceries as I threw them in the cart, and then knowing my maths worried that I’d get up there and be told, “That will be $467.48, please”) and then spent another 14 on god knows what, and the point is, I got busy Friday and forgot to go back to the bank.

So with $6, no ATM card and not even the ability to order movies and shows (because debit card locked), I couldn’t go anywhere or watch anything, you know what I did?

I watched Hot & Flashy videos. Do you know this woman? She’s our age, and she looks fekking amazing, and she tells you in great detail how she does it. For example, she has 11 cleansing/anti-aging steps each day.

She is my hero. And I’m champing at the bit to buy all her products, but see card, frozen. This is probably good, cause I mighta binged otherwise.

I see it’s already NINE FUCKING O’CLOCK and who set the TIMES forward, so I’d better go to work.

Chilled and not-that-flashily,

I had Ultherapy. Volume I.


I am 52 and single (see above). The longer I am single, the less that bothers me.

Sort of.

The single part? Okay, fine. Although my nightly pet orgy is cause for concern. But the 52 and LOOKING 52 part? Okay, that rankled.

Fortunately, I’ve had a blog (WEBSITE!! IT’S A WEBSI–oh, who are we kidding) since 2006, so I have 4954950305 photos of self, which enables me to watch aging as it creeps angrily across face.

Screen Shot 2018-03-09 at 10.54.16 AM.png
2006. Totally cut you out, there, ex. Sorry. -ish.
2009. It’s a blur. BAH.
2013. Guess I could remove this ex, too, but am pressed for time.

Perhaps I should be embracing life and being delighted to be alive and not concern myself with the ravages of time, but perhaps there is no way I’m gonna do that. The only people who say that are people who were never cute in the first place. And look. I was never any beauty queen. But sometimes I was okay with my looks. Now I never, ever am.

I once read that if, once all your makeup is on and you’ve DONE YOUR BEST, you STILL feel unhappy with your looks, then it’s time for medical intervention. Gandhi said that. I’ve kept it in mind, and I’ve reached that point.

2008. You guys were right. ALL my pictures back then sucked.

Anyway, no matter how much makeup I put on nowadays, no matter what tricks I pulled off, when I was done I didn’t look refreshed. I looked rehashed.

This week

Okay, that photo was after an exhausting day. Doesn’t count.

Grandma’s here.

Okay, here. I believe this was Christmas 2017. Makeup completely applied, and? Eh.

So my friend who gets everything done told me about Ultherapy. It’s this little machine they pass over your face (877 times, in my case) (seriously) that allegedly destroys and then grows your collagen, so that a few months after having it, you look exactly as you did at birth. Yes, I DID attempt to get them to pay for this procedure, knowing that at least 14 people read me. No, that did NOT impress them.

But the good news is now I can tell you all about it honestly.

So, first, my friend told me about how she’d had it done, and was waiting for the full results to kick in, but that she thought she already saw a difference. Interest. Piqued.

Then I read read read about it, and if you go on their website, the fine folks at Ultherapy will send you a simulation of what you’ll look like after, a simulation photo I had but could not find, and why, god. I’m a good person. Look at all the lovely sentiments in this here post.

Anyway, I saw three Ultherapy providers here in my area, and found one I trusted, and who would take a payment plan because of course I can’t afford this, and yes, it costs. It depends how much you have done, but it’s gonna cost at least $2,000.

Yesterday, I went for my procedure.

I didn’t have to do anything to prepare except avoid Retinol for a week and take 9 million milligrams of Motrin. I never take anything but migraine meds, but I happened to own Motrin because of broken toe, Motrin that I never took. I took a little less than she told me to, because I was worried it’d make me sick.

That may have been an error.

I wasn’t even nervous, which is also a mistake, because I find if I worry and obsess about something, it’s usually okay, and if I’m Chester Cheeto about it, whatever I didn’t worry about tends to be hell.

I hobbled in right at 2:00, and she took photos of me, and then we discussed which areas we were going to cover. What bugs me most about self is I have no jawline anymore.

img_3045.jpgHey, June, would you like a jawbreaker? Oh, I…are you even allowed to eat those?

So we were for sure doing that area, and I could have gone down onto my neck and décolletage, but instead I opted to do my cheeks. Just a little pinch between my cheek and gum.

We also did my forehead. I wasn’t expecting to do that, but I did not complain. Well. I DID complain, but we’re getting to that.

Because what I read, in the 2939402032 sites I perused, is there is “some discomfort” and that it “varies from person to person.” Well, I get Botox shot into m’forehead three times a year, and Juvederm as well. And I take it like a man. I say nothing and have a heart attack later.

But this?

She’d revved up her machine, and I was still completely not nervous. I was lying in a reclining chair, like at the dentist, and she’d given me a blanket. Then she said, “Ready? Three, two, one…”




The best way I can describe it is hot needles that had jalapeño on their tips. And that thing was jalapeño business, man. I mean, it has to go deep to RIP OUT all your collagen or whatever, and one thing that was good was the woman administering it, who was great, would count down for me. “Okay, in this area we need to do 60 passes.” And then she’d be all, “We’re at 37.”

Like I didn’t know that. Like I wasn’t counting every terrible pass over my skin. Still, it was nice she did that. And she would move to another area for awhile if I got too tense.

I was in agony knowing that with each part of my face, we’d have to come back and go over it again, and possibly even one more time after that. But the second pass?

Didn’t hurt nearly as much.

And I mean, look. It hurt. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream for her to stop. I just lay there covered in SWEAT, is all. But I got through it.

She told me it’d take two hours, and it took precisely that. When I got up, I’d left a Shroud of Turin on the chair. The backs of my jeans were damp.

Me, right after. I was thirsty. Hmmm, why? Because I’d sweated like Meat Loaf in concert?
Me, today. My grandmother back there is younger there than I am now. HER skin was good. You think she got Ultherapy on the sly? “Oh, I’m headed out for more elastic-waist beige slacks.”

Anyway, last night I was a little swollen but nothing terrible. My cheeks are numb, which they said to expect. I should start seeing results (more of a jawline, more lift in cheeks, lifted brows) in 90 days, and of course I will keep you apprised of my every nuance re this investment in my future.

“She was the best-looking bag lady I ever saw. So smooth!”

Further reports as developments warrant.