June's stupid life · Marvin · My pets

But look. Here’s Topel. The smoker’s tooth polish. What I like about my titles is they’re starting to make less and less sense.

So I was just in my closet, because who doesn't like to just stand around in their closet? What?

Okay, I was putting away clothes, because with Marvin home for the summer it's like I have a little butler. It's like Mr. French is here. Did Mr. French do laundry? You never saw him lugging hampers, did you? He was always just setting out the favorite drink for whichever bland woman Uncle Bill was gonna bring home that night. Mr. French was a total pimp.

Really, why did Uncle Bill have such terrible taste in women? They all had those dreadful bouffants and little business suits going. Like, this is what you're gonna do to your appearance when a rich guy like Uncle Bill asks you out? Let your freak flag fly, there, sugar! Let 'em hang! Show Uncle Bill what he's missin'! That'd be the kind of stylist I'd have been in the late '60s.

Shockingly, I just digressed.

I was IN THE CLOSET, putting away CLOTHES, when I heard–was that?–who?–is that purring I hear?

I pushed aside the clothes and found this.


Francis can't seem to shed his baggage and come out of the closet.

Seriously. That cat is on his pink chair for six months in a row and then suddenly he'll appear somewhere weird like that. I'll bet it took him two hours to waddle from the pink chair to my closet.


His eyes look a little rheumy, don't they? Do you think he's getting cataracts? That's what he needs. Another issue. And I realize Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman called and wants her satchel back. My Aunt Mary gave me that bag for my 30th birthday, and I will be 44 in two weeks. Need luggage. Stat.

How bad do you hate me for saying "stat" right now? You know what else I wish we'd all stop saying? Veggies. Vegetables only has one more syllable, unless you're Mrs. Bridges from Upstairs/Downstairs, who called them veg-e-ta-bles. But you probably aren't Mrs. Bridges from Upstairs/Downstairs. Seeing as she was a fictional character. So, could I trouble everyone to just use the real term? Are we that close of buds with all vegetables that we need a cute nickname for them?

Okay, I seriously logged on here to tell you something. And that is this. Go look at this video on People.com. It's the many faces of Michael Jackson or something. Look at it several times. Concentrate on one feature per viewing, like look at how his eyes change. Then look at his jawline. It is riveting.

Also, too, Barefoot Foodie is frigging hilarious today. Yes, I got hooked on Barefoot Foodie during this endless Funniest Blogger competition. How many links can I put in this paragraph? I am Art Linkletter. I am Juneaham Lincoln. Someone stop me.

I am Linc from The Mod Squad.

How many TV shows can I mention in this post, really? Waste your youth much, there, June?

I will end this useless post (but, really, if you link to either thing up there, Barefoot Foodie or People.com, your time here was not wasted) with the Obligatory Henry Picture.


Who is cute? Who looks like Daniel from Mr. Roger's? (I just wanted to mention another TV show.)

June's stupid life · My pets · Photo essays

The crows seemed to be calling his name, thought Caw.

Last night started out copacetic enough. We took Henry out for his routine viewing-of-the-fireflies part of the evening.


He loves him some fireflies. They fascinate him. Our hair matches, doesn't it?


He snaps his head this way and that, trying not to miss a single one.



I tried to photograph the actual fireflies, but have you ever tried to do that? I am no nature photographer.


I wish anything were this fascinating to me. I mean, other than me. And Barry Gibb.


Anyway, soon after that, I went to bed. Tallulah came with me. I was deeply in REM when the sound of her gagging woke me up. "OFF!" I said to her, before I was even awake.

That poor dog was sick as a pooch, so to speak. She kept gagging, then giving up and jumping back in the bed, then jumping off to gag pitifully some more, then she'd come back and spoon me, with her head on top of mine. I think she was scared. Heaven knows I would be, if I felt pukey. Have I mentioned the last time I barfed was in 1982? And I'd like to keep it that way?

Because I was worried about the dog, I lay there awake for a long time. I had many deep thoughts. For example:

  • I really, really like peppermint Tic-Tacs. When I was a kid and played house, I used to pretend to be addicted to pills and the Tic-Tacs were my pill bottle. I would stand in my play kitchen and make my hand shake while I poured out a big batch of Tic-Tacs, and stuff them all in my mouth greedily. I have no idea where I learned to pretend I was addicted to pills. It could have been from the soap operas I was expressly forbidden to see, that my grandmother totally let me watch as soon as my mother was gone. I lay there last night and thought about how good peppermint Tic-Tacs were. Honest. I did.
  • I do not know why, but I am curious about Kendra's wedding. Kendra. The really dumb Playboy chick from The Girls Next Door. She is someone who should just never open her mouth, because she is spectacularly stupid, but man, she looks good. I should NOT care what Kendra wore to her wedding, but I do. I almost considered getting up and Googling it.
  • Sometimes I think about just giving up and cutting off all my hair. Last night I tried to picture myself in a pixie haircut, which yes, I KNOW would be a disaster. You have to have Halle Berry's features, or Sharon Stone's. I have Dom Deluise's features.

I guess that must have been the point where I drifted off, because I had a dream that I actually went through with the pixie cut and in my dream it looked adorable. Keep dreamin'.

When I got up this morning Tallulah was her usual perky self, and Marvin–who slept through all the drama–said, "Someone threw up a peach pit at some point in the night."

I doubt it was Brandon from 90210. Remember? He worked at the Peach Pit? With Nat. See, I am full of the deep thoughts.

Why would you EAT a peach pit? What would make you say, "Oooo! This looks consumable!" I mean, I understand my dog is not as intelligent and deep as I am.

Do you think Tallulah would like Tic-Tacs?

June's stupid life · Marvin · Photo essays

My dumb weekend–by June

Well, obviously I lived through the state park experience. You know why? BECAUSE WE NEVER FOUND THE STATE PARK. I do not know whether to blame Marvin's navigational skills or MapQuest.


We took our good pal Tallulah Blueberry Gardens along, and I was annoyed enough that she had to lean on the arm rest from the back seat. What's wrong with just BEING in the back seat? You're eight millimeters from us.


And yet, it didn't take long for her to worm her way onto my lap, where, unless you want to shift, be not hot, or be not covered in dog fur, is just fine. Do you enjoy my artful aerial shot?

Since we drove all over yonder, as they say here, we decided we could at least stop at a yard sale, where I bought a china shepherdess for a dollar, only because Laura Ingalls Wilder's mother had a china shepherdess. Which she similarly got at a yard sale for a dollar. They just parked the wagon and browsed.


Who loves himself long time for posing just like the shepherdess? Actually, why do I think she's a shepherdess? She looks kind of like a Southern belle, doesn't she? Do you see one of those hooky sheep-gathering things? I totally duped myself, didn't I?

Someone pulled the wool over my eyes. BAH!

We also too stopped to look at puppies!


PUPPIES! PUPPY SNICKERDOODLES! Hello, good puppies. Who loves you? Does June love you? Who will take you right home? Is it your Aunt June?

Who made me get in the car and leave because he has ice in his veins?

Finally, old arctic arteries stopped at some tiny place that at least had water, but it was NOT A STATE PARK.


Tallulah did not enjoy walking on a floaty dock. She got this low crab walk going, and she was looking sophisticated, is what she was looking.

Unsure Lula not sure. Lula hide under daddy drawbridge. Daddy also china shepherdess.

Scaredoffish Lula also fear dead fish. Lula tough pit bull mix. Please take Lula home.

After yesterday's nonevent, I had to get back in the car today. One of my oldest friends is moving to North Carolina and I did one of those things where like a year ago I said, "Well, when you're moving here, if you need any help, just let me know."

Don't you hate it when people take you seriously when you say stuff like that? Like, once my friend Renee was having a party, and I similarly gave the phony "If you need any help let me know" speech, and girl, I was hauling furniture and ice bags and schlepping to the flower mart and the grocery store. I mean, by "let me know if you need help" I mean, "I'm trying to sound like I'm a good person." I don't actually MEAN it.

Really, though, I jest. I got in the car with my Sirius radio and headed off to the country where my friend is moving. The house they are thinking of renting is cute cute cute, but I am loathe to show it here, seeing as many of you may be dying to stalk my friend, who I have never mentioned till today, and certainly if I show you his cute 1950s kitchen, you will be able to find him and slice him to bits with a rusty razor.

Because it'd be worse to get sliced to bits with a RUSTY razor. Not only would you be dead, you'd be infected and dead.

The POINT of my story is that the place my friend is moving is really close to the corner where I found Tallulah. In case you are just tuning in, a year and a half ago I was driving out of town to a job interview and I found a little yellow puppy on a busy two-lane road, so I snatched her up and missed the interview. And that is how I got Tallulah, of the Fearful of Fish Tallulahs.

So I drove around and I FOUND HER CORNER! It was so exciting. Here it is.


What if the people who live here stumble on this blog and know I stole their dog? I am so dusted off. FOR THE RECORD, I stole her because she was on the street, she was so skinny I could feel every bone, and she was covered in fleas. My first instinct was to knock on all these doors, but once I held her skinny self and felt her tail flap-flap-flapping on my business interview suit, I said, Oh hell no. This pup is coming with me.

Plus, I don't even know if she lived in any of these houses. She  may have been dumped off.


Here's the road I sat on with her, holding her skinny self and trying to decide what to do. I know it looks quiet, but that is actually a two-lane highway up there, and people go 65 down it.

I like that one angry strand of hair escaping from my head in the rear view mirror, there. "You may have tamed that dog, but you can't tame me, bitch lips!" Yes, my hair does call me bitch lips. What about it?

Now it is evening and it's almost time to take Henry out for firefly watching. Because he deserves to be rewarded for his constantly charming behavior.


Poor Winston has never done anything wrong in his life. Why must he be tortured by children?

Speaking of torture, there are only eight days left in that ding and also dang funniest blogger contest. Since they eliminated the cheaty-pants votes, I am in second place, after Cake Wrecks, which I find very funny. I am two million votes behind Cake Wrecks. But keep in mind they pick from the top five, so I still have a shot at winning. And if I win, I promise I will help each and every one of you move or have a party. Just let me know if there's anything I can do to help!

P.S. Keee-RAP. Longest post ever. Special of the Week goes to Lety. Go click on it and see why.

Ask June · June's stupid life

Saturday (horn) in the park (horn) I think we’d better get to Ask Junnne (horn horn horn horn)

We are mixing it up this week, having Ask June on Saturday instead of Friday. Ask June likes to keep things wild and unpredictable. I know your teeth are vibrating.


Also plus, Ask June, her spouse, and her dog are headed to a state park today, so she has to kind of stampede through the questions. Ask June is not at all thinking about being eaten by a panther or falling off a cliff today or anything. Because Ask June is so able to relax and enjoy herself, ever.

So let's hang over at a potentially posthumous Ask June, shall we?

Bonnie wonders, "Do you have a favorite grammar book? My favorite is 'Woe is I'…"

Ask June knows she seems as though she were the type to sit around reading grammar books, but in fact she is not. Ask June did read the dictionary the summer she was 10, so she understands she was headed that way. Until she discovered boys and wine.

Confused Grizzly queries, "I was very impressed with your affect/effect explanation. Do you have one for which is bear is bare? I'm not sure I can bear or bare to hear the answer."

Ask June knows she seems like she'd have a pithy way to remember bare or bear, but she does not. I guess you could always think, "I can't bear to go bare." How about that? (And as a reminder, if you can use "alter" in the sentence, the word is affect. Remember a with a.)

Tee frets, "How is Francis doing? Poor baby."

Tee asked this question back in January, when poor Fran had a kidney stone. But he is doing well, Tee, for an angry 690-pound, 12-year-old cat. I think he had another one in March, but it too did pass.

Carrie asks, "Don't you think it would be fun to have a luncheon with all your Michigan readers the next time you're in town?"

Let Ask June tell you something about when she goes back to Michigan, Carrie. Ask June lived there for the first 27 years of her life, and therefore formed a lot of close bonds and Gold Bond Medicated Powder. And her family and her husband's family all live there. Whenever Ask June returns to the Mitten State, she is booked like Maria Carey was right before she had that breakdown where she came out with the food cart on MTV. Ask June has gotten to the point where she does not say on her blog that she is returning to Michigan, lest she get 952 "You're coming back for 17 hours for a wedding?! Let's get together at some point!!" messages. (But please don't stop wanting to see me, friends in the Mitten State. Ask June kind of enjoys the chaos when she is back.)

But yeah, that does sound kind of fun, actually. Particularly the idea of a "luncheon." Will Hanna Gruen be serving it to Ned Nickerson and Nancy Drew?

Shannon ponders, "Do word scrambles/searches drive you insane because it's just not right or do you strive to solve the mystery?"

Ask June knows she seems like the kind of person who would do word scrambles and such, but she is not. That said, lately Marvin printed out several word searches for his students because it was the end of the year and apparently he was over teaching, and he got irate because I would often take them and do them, when he was going to use that printout to make copies at work. Ask June say relax. And help her find "poignant" backwards and sideways while you're up.

That wraps up another compelling episode of Ask June. Next time you hear from Ask June, it'll be on the 11 o'clock news: "A yellow dog was found wandering alone at the state park today, and in possibly related news, a panther at the park coughed up a world's record hairball."

Current Affairs · June's stupid life · Marvin

Do you wish I’d stop saying things like, “Help a sister out” given that I’m a middle-aged, chubby white woman?

Geez, it's been a depressing 24 hours, hasn't it? Farrah was bad enough, and now Michael Jackson? And you know I was psychic about it? Several of my family members who are faithful readers can verify this. I said, "Ed McMahon and Farrah. You know how these things come in threes. Maybe the next one will be some shocking death we weren't expecting."

Okay, so I wasn't exactly Nostradamus, but still.

Some of you asked how Marvin was doing, and for those of you who don't know, Marvin worked for Michael Jackson for two years. He wrote a guest post about it at least a year ago but I am too lazy to find it to link to it. At any rate, I asked him for a quote.

Marvin said, "He's out of my life. He's out of my life. I'm sad about it, what do you want? Say, say, say, I heard Michael Jackson died."

Wouldn't it be nice if Marvin could express genuine emotion, ever? Anyway, I know he feels really bad about it, for reals, and that he never had one bad thing to say about Michael Jackson. He never ever believed Michael Jackson was a child molester. Ever.

Now I will show you Marvin's big claim to fame–an actual unretouched genuine and apparently I have decided commas are outdated…NOTE FROM MICHAEL JACKSON. Prepare yourself. Gird your loins.


Yes, he wrote "ink pin." What do you want from the guy? He had way more money than you do.

My father called Michael Jackson Marvin's "pin pal." Everyone's a comedian.

So, it's sad. And Farrah is sad, too. But there is a light at the end of this bleak tunnel…

I pooped! Like, ninety-six times! I do not know why it has to be feast or famine over here at bung of June.

I must get ready for work now, but I will leave you with proof that my cats are annoying.


I particularly like how the bag the cats worked together to rip apart, like Joe and I were ripped apart, is juxtaposed against the address book that Tallulah ate. All this photo needed were the hundreds of invoices from various vets and you have a complete "Don't ever get pets" tableau.

I was delighted to grab the food bag today and have tiny pieces fall all over the floor.


Fortunately, Henry was willing to help a sister out.

I'll be back tonight with Ask June. If you have any Ask Junes for me, ask them here. Would someone PLEASE tell me how to make a button? And finally, I am thousands, lo THOUSANDS of points behind the first-place person in the Funniest Blogger contest, so if you are so inclined, go catch me up! Thank you.

P.S. What say you? No, no. I am back because I forgot that the other day I linked to fun blog Annieology and the link did not work. So let's link to Annieology for reals this time. Why must I say "for reals"?

June's stupid life · Marvin · My pets

In which I invent the word “orificles.” What say you?

(I swear the floor does not need sweeping, it needs repainting. This floor vexes me.)

I just got home from work and immediately went outside with Tallulah. Now that Marvin is not working all summer, Tallulah no longer spends her days at dog day care. When I get home she is dying dying dying to go outside and play.

(I think Marvin's dog-care skills rank right up there with how I babysat. Which is to say, I called my boyfriend Kevin and talked on the phone while occasionally glancing up to see if poison was being consumed.

I think Marvin is totally talking to Kevin. I do not see that Lula is being intellectually or physically challenged while he is in charge. So, you know, if we got ANOTHER PUPPY, Lula would be amused and Marvin could pay even less attention to her. Don't you think? Like, maybe a nice Great Dane puppy. In a 1950s ranch-style house with three cats and a 50-pound dog already here. I think that'd be roomy and enjoyable. What say you?)

At any rate, whilst playing with the dog I had the back door open, because I'm your back door man, and it didn't take long for Henry to wander out.


An old photo but a good one. This is basically what Tallulah did 24 hours a day when Henry was tiny.

I do not want Henry to be an outdoor cat. I was emailing with Faithful ReaderAnnieology about this today. At least I think I was having that conversation with her. I also emailed with Faithful Readers Hulk, bell, KW, and Erin. Maybe I should try working at work and not emailing with Faithful Readers all day. What say you?

So, as I was saying to someone who I think was Annieology, outdoor cats have reduced life expectancy of 67%, they kill birds even though they're well-fed inside, they poop in other yards. You know. It's just generally not a stellar idea. But Winston goes outside, I am sorry to tell you, and of course Tallulah goes in and out 97 times a day. So Henry's all, "Hey! What doing? Henry like door!"

And plus not to mention I take him out every night to look at fireflies. He sits on my lap and whips his head all over the place. He loves him the fireflies.

So what am I teaching him? I am teaching him it's FUN beyond the door! There are lit bug butts and laps and warm breezes and safety! Good job, self.

Therefore, when I saw him wander outside where Lula and I were playing, I held him up just like he hates and snapped his picture.


Seriously? Looks like he couldn't care less that I picked him up. He looks like he's checkin' for fireflies, if you ask me. "Oh. You lifting Henry? Bug buttz out yet?"

How bad do you hate my cat dialect? How much do you want to drive something large and sharp up my orificles? What say you?

My cat woes aside, I do need your help. My friend Paula, the one I got up with in Asheville, as they say here, is coming here September 3 with some of her gay posse. I offered to make dinner for them, and as you know I have my one dish–lasagna. Which usually works, and it DOES work for Paula, who is the pickiest eater you have ever met in your life. When she was a kid the only things her mom could get her to eat were heads of lettuce and coffee. I am not making that up.

So, the fact that Paula likes lasagna and it's all I know how to make is nothing short of miraculous. But one of her friends is a vegetarian. So, yeah, I'll have salad and bread, but what else can I serve him? Don't go gettin' all souffle-y on me, or suggest tofu anything. This is the person who wasn't sure she owned salt and pepper when she made pea salad the other day, remember? Oh, and he's super healthy, too, so he wouldn't be going for some mayo-laden pea salad, either.

What say you? Are you sick of me saying "What say you?" yet? What say you to that? What say you about voting for me in that contest, which I PROMISE is over in less than two weeks? I am back in fourth place. What say you about that? Are you gonna try to go in and remove your votes because I won't stop asking you what you say?

Okay, bye.

P.S. What say you?

Family · Food and Drink · June's stupid life · My pets

Nectarines, ganja, Hee Haw, one-word answers

Seriously annoyed that my nectarines aren't ripe yet. I did the thing where I bought a bunch of ripe ones and practically ate them all before I got home from the store, and then I bought some unripe ones (that can't be the right word. Unripe. What is it? Did I ever tell you I have a degree in English?) that I put in a paper bag to ripen. And yet? Tonight? Hard. Hard as Chinese algebra.

So we had the work party today and I am pleased to announce my pea salad was a hit! I was so worried no one would take mine, given that the other people on the committee actually, you know, cook, and each one of them made a salad, but at the end of the soiree the pea salad was gone.

You should have seen me trying to cook last night. "Where is the CUTTING BOARD? Is it in the attic? Crap. It is. (clomp clomp clomp). Oh, crap. Do we even own any salt and pepper? Crap!"

Lot of crap going on in the kitchen. BUT NOWHERE ELSE. I know. I said I'd drop the subject. But SERIOUSLY. Can you DIE from this?

At any rate, cooking is not relaxing when you do it twice a year.

I hate peas. I never even tried my own creation. Blech. I like pea soup, though. Can you explain that?

Did you ever notice that "ate" is just "eat" with the "e" moved to the beginning? Fascinating. I wonder if whoever invented that word did that on purpose. And no, I am not high on the maryjane. Shut up.

Have you ever smoked the ganja? Do you like it? I did it in college and I hate hate hate hate hate the feeling. It makes me want to crawl into a dark corner where no one can see me for the rest of my life and eat chocolate-covered Doritos. Everyone I hung out with was, like, Cheech Marin, so I was the oddball, with my lack of doobage liking.

Seriously, if it's not UNRIPE, what IS IT? Bugging me.

I like peaches and nectarines equally, but don't give me any of that white peach stuff. Oh, I'd rather mate with Buck Owens then eat a white peach. My grandmother once told me she wouldn't sleep with Buck Owens for a million dollars. My grandmother made like $6,000 a year or something. I don't know why she told me stuff like that. We spent a lot of time together. I think sometimes she forgot I was 8 or whatever.

Do you even know who Buck Owens is? He was on Hee Haw.


I mean, peach suit aside, he's not THAT bad that Gramma had such an aversion to him. But let me remind you what Gramma's husband looked like.


Okay, hi. She scored the hot husband. (Is it wrong to say your grandfather was hot?) So I guess I can see where she could get all snooty re Buck Owens.

Heavens, I hope he isn't still alive and Googling himself. Buck Owens, I mean. I'll feel terrible if he finds this.

And don't you feel bad about Ed McMahon? I emailed my special work friend about it. (Do you have a special work friend? The person you talk to the most at work? I always seem to develop a special work friend.) Here went our email exchange:

Me: Did you see Ed McMahon died?
Special Work Friend: Yes.
Me:…Okay. Good talk.

I guess SWF had nothing much to say on the topic. But I liked Ed McMahon. I mean, how could you not? With that hearty laugh and those Publisher's Clearinghouse checks.

I hate to tell you this, but I must sign off from this really meaningful, full-of-any-topic-whatsoever blog post. It is 8:10 and I spent an inordinate amount of time in the back yard with Tallulah after work, having a scintillating conversation that went like this:

Me: Give me that ball. YOU GIVE ME THAT BALL. Give me that ball, girl. Drop it. Drop it. Drop it.
Tallulah: Grrr!

Really, no one wants to talk to me today. Or give me that ball, for that matter.

(Oh. Sorry. Almost forgot. Obligatory Henry below.) (He's HUGE all of a sudden.)

June's stupid life · My pets · Times I Amused My Own Self

Really, I have nothing important to tell you. Go watch Match Game instead.

Who cracks herself up because she thought of Match Game? It was a game show that came on after school in the '70s and maybe the '80s, and it featured such luminaries as Charles Nelson Riley. And also Brett Sommers. Who as far as I know never did anything except be on Match Game.

The theme song went like this: BWAP! Doom do do do do doom BWAP! Doom do do do do doom. You know you are totally hearing it in your head right now. If you're over 35, anyway.

Oh, smack my Fannie Flagg. Look what I found on You Tube. The theme song from Match Game. Good GRAVY, the Internet is a wonderful place.

But now, see how I was going to tell you I had nothing to tell you, and now I give you great material such as the theme song from Match Game? You know what I might do? You know how some people blast music on their blog so that when you're at work you get into trouble because suddenly your computer is playing I've Been to Paradise But I've Never Been to Me when you're supposed to be formatting spreadsheets? I am TOTALLY gonna be one of those blogs that play music, except the only thing I'll play is the theme from Match Game over and over. And maybe I'll Tumble For Ya every fourth song, just to be annoying.

My best friend in high school HATED the song I'll Tumble For Ya, and once we were at a diner and I put $10.00 in the juke box and just played I'll Tumble For Ya over and over again. Oh, the hilarity. It'd end and then it'd go do do do do dodo! I'll tumble for ya, I'll tumble for ya, I'll tumble for ya, I'll tumble for YOU…

Eventually, the manager came and unplugged the juke box. Whatever with his crabby self. Back then 10 bucks got you like 20 songs.

Anyway. The other important info I must impart for you is that I got home early today because I had to go back to the migraine doctor. And even though I have been off my make-me-skinny meds for three weeks, I weighed LESS today than I did last time I went there. Which between you and me is a bit of a surprise, because I don't mean to dwell on my bowels, but they are not exactly what you'd call moving and shaking lately. Mrs. Brown has not been dropped off at the pool. If you catch my drift. So imagine how little I'd weigh if I were, you know, squeezing the Charmin or whatever.

Getting home early meant I had plenty of time to get to the store and buy the ingredients for my pea salad, which I have to take for my work party tomorrow. I am sorry to tell you that I told several coworkers that I planned to get a bunch of lettuce and pee on it, so you can imagine the crowds clamoring for my pea salad tomorrow. Salad going begging! Did your mother ever say that?

Goodness, we've dwelled on several bodily functions here today at Bye Bye Match Game. Let's segue to something more tantalizing, such as the obligatory Henry picture.


Who is a little frog? Look at his legses. And his round tum. Honestly, he is in such a dink phase right now, where he pounces on EVERYTHING, the only thing saving him is his little froggy sweetness.

I must go now, try to get some fiber. And I know you hope I keep you abreast of how THAT'S going. I promise to never bring it up again. I will leave you with yet another reminder to vote, although I hardly think today counts as a funniest blogger day. Still. Try to remember the good times we had together. When I actually had things to tell you that were actually funny. Vote for THAT June, not this stopped-up, game-show-loving shell of a blogger from today. (Did you see what I did, there? I brought it up again.)

Family · June's stupid life · Photo essays

Sit right back and you’ll hear the longest tale in the history of time

Do you ever get annoyed because you can't phone someone because they're dead? My current dilemma would be solved in a moment if I could just phone my grandmother. But not only would I have to go back to 2005 when she was still alive, I'd really have to go back to before she had dementia, which means I'd have to go back to about 1999, and I had a particularly stupid haircut in 1999, so I'd have to weigh that one out.

My poor grandmother would have hated having dementia, had she known she had it. Being smart and independent were here biggest accomplishments. I know this sounds dreadful, but I'm glad she died quickly after she had to go to a nursing home. She would have hated, HA.TED. being in that state.

When she died, we went through her stuff and found this:
Can you read that? It reads, "Info for when I die (and about time!)" I will forgive her the punctuation inside the paren, because this is so, so her. She had no desire to go on forever. Clearly. And as you can see I liked this so much I had it framed. Grammy slayed me. She was not a doily grandmother.

I like how I have gotten off on this tangent when I meant to write one line about her and stampede to my dilemma, which is that I have gardening issues and do not know what I'm doing and Grammy would have known what to do in a millisecond.

We have a large tree in our backyard, and I love that tree.


I make a point of looking up into that tree at least once a day, along with my current other goal, which is to try to look at fireflies each day while they are here. (Look at Marvin, all doing yard work like a homeowner. Kills me.)

But the problem is, no grass will grow under this large tree.


It looks dreadful. I tried planting grass last year and it did not work. Do you enjoy Tallulah's disgusting plush toys on the deck? They are being washed as we speak. Which we aren't. And trying to gather up her toys while she was in the backyard was a joy. She didn't think we were playing or anything. She didn't leap 50 feet in the air after each toy as I swooped it up.

What next!? Which toy?! Lula happy! Lula not annoying!

WAIT! That my toy! Lula run after you like crazed rabid beast!

Yes, Marvin IS cutting the grass today.

So, what do I do about the bare spots? It seems weird to put ground cover there randomly. Do we just make the deck bigger, build around the tree? Isn't that expensive? Help. Help, help. I am totally Polly Purebread right now.

Be my Underdog.

Oh. And I tried to take an obligatory Henry picture and I could not find him.

Not with Fran. And whoever called this a sheet last time, it is not a sheet. It's a…thing from Urban Outfitters. I put it on this chair because Fran is getting really crippled up and gets litter on his chair, because he brings some back with him each time. Hey, I'm just glad he still uses the box. Anyway, this NOT SHEET is washable, as opposed to the chair.

Henry wasn't in his usual hiding places, nor on the beds. So I called him and heard a muffled mew. There is nothing scarier than hearing a muffled mew when you have a kitten.


He was in the closet! When I let him out, he shook it off, then returned to attack the door. Stupid door.

Then he jumped on my lap to hear about what a poor kitty he was, and I tried to take his photo but he kept chewing the camera string. So I held him up and took his picture, and he was not pleased.


Remember the first day I got him and I did the up photo thing? That was April 23. It is June 20. Look how big he's gotten in less than two months!

He's also gotten a little attitude, hasn't he?

I will go now, because this was the longest post ever and your family has put your photo on milk cartons, but don't forget to tell me what to do with that bare part of my lawn. And remember I live in the South, so South-related foliage, please. Thank you.

Oh, but wait! (Your husbands have taken on a new wife. Your kids have forgotten what you look like.) The coveted comment of the week–affectionately known as Special of the Week because I'm irritating–goes to two people this time, because last week I was basking in the UV rays and did not award anyone. So Bronwyn receives accolades for two weeks ago, and Kira, The Mommy gets kudos for this week.

Did anyone see The Real Housewives of NYC where Ramona mispronounces "kudos"? Oh, how I dislike Ramona.

Ask June · June's stupid life

Hey, June, what’s shakin’? (Or, I’d rather be blogging)

I saw a really good bumper sticker on a car today. It read, "I'd rather be driving." Then below that was the name of some zen center near here.

Okay, I love this bumper sticker. I have always been sort of annoyed by those "I'd rather be…" bumper stickers. Instead of moaning to all of us about how you'd rather be shopping at Nordstrom or poking baby chickens or whatever, how about just being happy where you are, right now? 

So gettin' me an "I'd Rather Be Driving" bumper sticker.

Which leads me to a brief discussion about this Funniest Blogger contest. I am now officially in third place, and you know what? It's fine.

I never wanted to be the funniest blogger in the ding-dang world. I don't want to disparage other funny bloggers, or kill myself to be more amusing than they are. I love my blog, and all my blog friends. I will be happy if I win that thing, and happy if I don't. Do you have any idea how nice it was to tell you all I was nominated and then get into second place overnight?

I don't need some super-secret-squirrel, sitting-behind-a-table-like-that-committee-in-the-last-scene-of-Flashdance group to tell me I'm funny. You all tell me I'm funny, and you are all I need. What a feelin'.

And speaking of the invisible friends I have made in blogging, my close personal friend Jan, who I have never met or even talked to, is in cahoots with me to fix one of her family members up with one of my family members. If this works, it'll be the weirdest thing this blog has produced.

So, I was perusing the Ask June Qs, and came across these Jan questions I have not yet addressed. Let's answer those today. Have a little All Jan, All the Time kind of an Ask June, shall we?


 You know I like to throw in a picture on Ask June day, and this old shot was on the desktop. Seriously, I crack myself the hell up sometimes. 

Jan asks, "Why do celebrities name their children such odd names?"

Because celebrities are annoying, Jan. And hey, did you see John and Kate plus Bicarbonate or whoever are getting a divorce? You mean Kate is available?

Jan also asks, "How did Marvin propose to you?"

Haven't I already told this story? Poor Culpepper, the person who's read me since 1850. She is so over this story. But if you're new, here we go.

Marvin and I dated in college for three terrible months, then we broke up after a certain beer bottle got thrown at a certain someone's head. Because maybe someone didn't PAY ENOUGH ATTENTION and needed a little jarring. And maybe that plan backfired, and the person getting the beer thrown at him was instead completely repulsed and didn't think getting glass thrown at his noggin was sexy and compelling like someone thought it might be.

So, after that dramatic breakup–and ALL my breakups were dramatic, I am sure you're shocked to hear–Marvin and I somehow remained pals. He moved to Los Angeles, I moved to Seattle. Ten years after the beer toss, I invited him to visit me in Seattle and seven months later the following happened.

I had moved to Los Angeles and one day Marvin gave me my perfect day, based on the information I gave him after he'd once asked me, "What would your perfect day be?"

I tell you what. It's been 13 years since that proposal day and if I were ON FIRE Marvin wouldn't even ask me, "Why are you on fire?" We are so over each other. I cannot fathom that he ever asked me that question, but there you go.

So, he served me breakfast in bed, and he had made hash browns with onions in it. Then we went to the beach. Then we drank outside. Then we got on a ferris wheel at Santa Monica pier and that is where he did the deed. And I have always thought, what if I'd said no? How awkward would the rest of that ferris wheel ride have been?

RingHe gave me a beautiful ring from the 1940s, as I had told him I wanted an old ring. I have since been told the ring may even be from earlier than that, but whatever. He did well with the ring.

Then we ate barbecue, as that was also part of my perfect day. It really was kind of a good day.

Finally, Jan wonders, "My sister and I just had terse words regarding how to pronounce 'Horkheimer' as in Mr. Horkheimer.  I say it is 'Hork-Heimer.'  She insists that it is 'Horkheimer.' If that makes any sense, kind of like 'Hork-her-mer.'  Kind of.  Please tell us who is right."

Mr. Horkheimer is my dead cat. He was the love of my life.

Franhork 001

Here he is with a much younger and thinner Francis. Horkie was the love of Francis' life, too.


Here's Horkie now. I want you to know I just took his ashes and posed them next to Francis because I thought that'd be a HILARIOUS photo, and the stupid camera battery died. Just like my cat.

Anyway, it's Hork-HYE-mer, if that makes sense. Long "I" sound in the middle.

And that wraps up another pressing week of Ask June. And you know how I do that annoying link and I say ask your Ask June questions here? I think what I'll do from now on is remind you it's Ask June on Thursday and you can ask them right there. I wish I knew how to do buttons. I mean, the button to vote for me was already made, and that took 850 hours to get up here.

I'd rather be signing off till tomorrow.

June's stupid life · My pets

A stupid evening

Marvin and I just took the dog for a walk. I did not want to go. I am tired. I just got home. Plus also I had my review today at work and I got myself all worked up that it was gonna be terrible and my boss was gonna say, "Gather your stuff and get out" or even come at me with one of those big sheep hooks they use to pull people offstage, and in fact that is not what happened at all. She was quite complimentary and again called my proofreading "top notch." This is the second "top-notch" I have received and I enjoy my notch being at or near the top.

So there it was. It went well, but I am emotionally drained.

This did not stop Marvin, however. "Come for a walk with us. Come on. Tallulah wants you to go on our walk."

Of course, all Tallulah knows is that the word "walk" is being bandied about and as soon as you say that word her pupils become great pools of hope and she starts grinning like a possum eating shit off a hairbrush.

So I went on the ding-dang walk. I do not want my dog to end up calling Dr. Laura because I am too drained to stroll with her.

The first thing is that it was raining. RAINING. I tried to hold the umbrella over Tallulah like she is Puff Daddy or Pee Diddy or Peedoodeleedoodeeoh or whatever he now calls himself and I am the umbrella handler. But it became apparent that she did not care if she got wet, and I really did. So I went back to just umbrella-ing my own self.

Rainhair But you know I got rain hair.

Also, Marvin is not so good at making Tallulah heel, a thing she is not top-notch at. She is really more bottom notch, if you want the truth.

Also also, I could TELL she had to poop, and Marvin just kept yanking her along. "She has to poop," I told him. Several times. "Honey, really, slow down," I said. "I can tell when her butt is thinking of pooping."

I really can. She does this flexy thing that maybe you do not wish to know about.

I took her leash and slowed down. Her butt seriously considered pooping. "Why doesn't her butt think of pooping on OUR lawn?" asked Marvin, who can never just let me or Lula's butt be. "Come on, we're two houses from our lawn."

Of course, because we rushed her, her butt reconsidered.

And now we are home and I have rain hair and Tallulah is at the back door, because her butt has now made up its mind.

So far this evening is not at a notch I appreciate.

Family · June's stupid life · Marvin

Fathers’ Day

Have you gotten your dad anything for Father's Day yet? I mean, if you have a dad or if you're speaking to your dad or any other politically incorrect thing I forgot to include in that rather assumy-pants question.

My father has the nerve to have his birthday on June 17th, which is almost always three-and-a-half minutes before Father's Day. Which means I have to get him TWO gifts every year.

Dad 001

Blurry Dad. Don't even ask about the outfit. I was having a pink party.

This year for his birthday, which is today, he wanted cowboy boots because he lives in New Mexico now and apparently he is doing as the Romans do, or the New Mexicanites do, or whatever they call themselves in New Mexico. Why don't we call the other Mexico Old Mexico if we have a New Mexico? Why would a state name itself after a whole country? Why didn't they call themselves New Jalisco or something?

So, my Aunt Mary and I each sent him a check toward the purchase of new cowboy boots, which really isn't very exciting and I still don't know what I'm getting him for Father's Day, which is three and a half minutes away.

Now, I also have a stepfather, and he has written a book. For Christmas, I proofread and lightly edited his book and told him once he approved the corrections I would make the edits.

Harold 001

My stepfather. He's the one who isn't me, or Marvin, or my mother. Don't tell me my hair looks good. I could afford $300 haircuts at John Freida salon then.

It took him seventeen milliseconds to approve my edits, and I swear to you my Christmas tree was not even DOWN and he had that book mailed back to me.

Then guess who forgot all about it? Guess who put all those papers in a closet and never gave them another thought because she was busy thinking about myself? Guess who put that book out of her mind until the other day when he sent a very polite email saying, "Um. I got a publisher for the book. Were you thinking you'd EVER send me those DING and also DANG corrections?"

So there I was, with the perfect Father's Day gift for my stepfather. He is the least materialistic person you ever met, and this would be perfect, even though it's cheating because it's really the second half of his Christmas gift.

Anyway, after many agonizing hours, I have just made those corrections and HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, HARRY!

Since I was so busy toiling over this book, I asked Marvin to run out and get Father's Day cards tonight. He came back with two nice cards–one for his dad and one for my stepfather. I signed them and said, "Okay, I'm ready to sign my father's card."

"What do you mean?" Marvin said. "You just SENT a card to your dad."

"That was his BIRTHDAY CARD," I said. I sent one of those ones that play music when you open them. It played the theme from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Cause it was kind of a cowboy theme due to his boots, see.

I mean, Marvin has known me since 1985. He has seen me do the birthday/Father's Day thing with dad 950 times. WHYYYYYY must that man vex me at every turn? And as I write this, it is 9:08 p.m. There is nowhere on earth to get a card at 9:08 p.m. Plus also I have a headache from editing all day and working on Harry's book all night.


Marvin. Lucky that he is cute. Wow! Look how well Tallulah's reflective leash reflects back there!

So now I not only have no GIFT for dad, I have no timely card, either. Do you think there's any chance dad will forget he has a daughter and not notice the lack of attention on Father's Day? Do you think he'll use those cowboy boots to kick my arse to China, or New China, for being a terrible child?

Suggestions, please! He is as far from a traditional dad as you can get. Think as if Hunter S. Thompson were your dad. Without the whole ashes-shot-out-of-a-cannon thing.

Friends · June's stupid life


Before I begin, I give you OHP (obligatory Henry picture):


I know I always show them sleeping together, but it's what happens here at night. Although Henry and I have a little tradition as of late where I take him outside after dinner, and he sits on my lap and looks obsessively at fireflies. Maybe I'll have Marvin photograph us tonight.

…Hey, did you know my blog is nominated twice for that award? Sighhhhhh.

Anyway, Sleeping Beauty sent me more photos of our trip to the beach, and I thought I would share them with you. Because what's more interesting that someone else's vacation shots?

So, we were lying on the beach on, like, day three of lying on the beach (and making out the ENTIRE TIME, remember, if you live in Marvin's fantasy world) and Sleeping Beauty told me about how last year she and her friend drove and drove and oh! also they drove, to this lighthouse they wanted to climb. Problem was, they got there at 5:15 and the dang thing closed at 5:00. She had been so disappointed.


I said, "Let's get in the car and go down there! How much more melanoma can we get?" So we got dressed and headed to the lighthouse. Above are my buttockals heading to the site. Really, my arse doesn't look that big, all things considered. And by "all things" I mean the 78 Taco Supremes I scarf a week.

Oh, it was pretty there! And there was a gift shop. Of course. I said to the Beauty, "Do you think they sell lighthouse earrings? Because I am so buying some if they do."


Three dollars and 15 cents. For high-fashion jewelry such as this? I am a beacon of style! Get it? And let's discuss the ball on the end of my nose. Can I take up a COLLECTION to get that thing removed? It's like Sputnik.

After our successful journey to the gift shop, where a strange little man looked Sleeping Beauty up and down and said, "MMMM!" in a guttural tone, we headed to the main attraction. The big event. The reason we had gathered ourselves together. And you know what?



Stupid weather. I liked it better when all of North Carolina was in a drought. Who CARES if we get struck by lightning just a tad? We'll likely live, right?

Apparently, Sleeping Beauty is not supposed to go in this lighthouse, ever.

Maybe she can climb my earring. Or explore my nose ball.

June's stupid life

Seriously? Going to hang myself if one more person tells me this.

You guys. On that Funniest Blogger contest that I am already sick of? Apparently I have been nominated twice. So there is my blog name and 1,400 votes, and there is also my blog name and 20 votes. Or something. I have been emailed by every person I have ever known or been related to in my life. I have been telephoned. I have been Facebooked. I received a lovely bread-and-butter letter from Martha Washington re this. I KNOW I'M ON THERE TWICE. I have emailed them. 

I am so going to get nominated for crankiest blogger any second now. I'll get nominated twice, of course. Then everyone can send me a singing telegram about it.

Friends · June's stupid life · My pets

Guess what? It’s humid at the beach!


Peter Frampton called. Wants his beach hair back. (Really, he does. Have you seen poor Peter Frampton lately? Bald. If there was ever someone who shouldn't have gone bald. All those lovely blond curls…)

Really, my hair at the beach is a thing to behold. You got your wind, you got your saltwater, you got your humidity, and then it even rained. It was like I was the child of cotton candy and bedsprings. It was bad.

So needless to say I didn't pick anybody up at the beach. Except for some construction workers, who thought I was carrying insulation on my head.

But hey, I go away for four days and I come back and Chastity Bono is a man? I miss everything interesting.

Anyway, here's my trip in a nutshell.


Marvin is going to be so bothered by that photo. He hates feet and all feet-related things.

Here's my trip in a nutshell when I rolled over.


Hi, Sleeping Beauty! Yes, we did the thing again where we only took pictures of her sleeping. We continue to think we're hilarious.

The other thing we did was look at crabs. No, I didn't look in the mirror, Shecky Green. There were little crabs running about and Sleeping Beauty and I were enamored of them.


Can you see him out there, in the middle of the sand? This one was kind of yellow, so we named him Old Yeller. Because we're creative that way. I kind of enjoyed staring at my own astrological symbol all weekend. Crabs are cute.

Also too, there were dolphins and I sat like a sentinel for hours trying to see them. I finally saw what seemed to be four sets of fins in the water, and I do not mean that Sven and Ingmar were out there. So I MIGHT have seen dolphins but I really wanted a whole no doubt I saw them, rubbing my parts on Flipper kind of thing. Which did not work. I considered ordering mahi mahi just so I could see a dolphin for sure, but I did not.

Anyway, thanks for voting for me in that ding-dang contest while I was gone. Don't you wish that thing were over by now?

Now I have to go make out with Henry, because I missed him so bad.


Guess who isn't in the mood to be picked up and kissed? Guess who is 1/100th my size so he has no choice? Guess who just huffed off with attitude, like he is too good for this, and doesn't want to be associated with a half-cotton-candy/half-bedsprings mom?

They grow up so fast.

June's stupid life · Marvin · My pets · Times I Amused My Own Self

Can you hear me now? Woof.

(I'm on vacation, but it's summer. Repeat time! Please enjoy me digging out this old, tired post from back in November.)

Last night I got home from work right around the same time Marvin did, and again I'd like to point out the part where Marvin is an elementary school teacher. Why is he coming home at 6:00? Is there a second shift at school that I do not know about?

At any rate, I was being greeted by Tallulah in her usual indifferent way. It is hard to adjust to dog greetings after a lifetime of coming home to cats and being greeted by this:


Francis: Big Hair home. Maybe she feed us. Winston: Who?

And yes, I do understand that Francis weighs 782 pounds. And that he is trying to wedge Winnie into the wall so he can grow wider. Don't even ask about the orange extension cord. It was a Marvin project thing.

If you don't have a dog, let me try to describe the greeting process. Remember in Gone With the Wind, when Ashley was missing in the Civil War, and the best they could hope for was that  he was a prisoner somewhere? The war ended, and Scarlett and Melanie, who had so little themselves, spent all day feeding and bathing the soldiers who were trudging back, to see what was left of their own war-torn homes. One weary day, they saw another soldier coming up the road. Scarlett complained that there'd be another mouth to feed that night, but Melanie clutched her throat. She stepped forward, even more pale than that anemic namby-pamby mousy thing usually was. I never did identify with Melanie.

Suddenly she DROPPED her mending. She jumped down the steps. She ran, ran as fast as her skinny, so-needing-Jergens-tanning-lotion legs could carry her, because she knew that down that road, it was Ashley! Ashley! Home from the war at last! He was safe! He was alive! Her Ashley! She ran all the way, THREW herself into Ashley's arms, not even able to believe she was seeing him again.

That is pretty much how Tallulah feels every day when I get home.

It was in this state of rapture that Marvin found Tallulah and me last night. "We are just going out for a walk," I said. "Come with us."

I know I have mentioned before that Marvin is no speed demon about leaving the house when you want him to. First, he had to change his shoes. Who is he, Mr. Rogers? Then he had to take off his tie. Then he had to drink some water and write a personal letter to Vladimir Putin and sew a few patches on the Amish quilt he's been working on. You can imagine Tallulah, who is only 11 months old, was getting a little twitter patted. She already had her leash on, and she was doing that annoying jump up and try to walk herself thing with the leash, and when you try to take it away from her she thinks you're playing tug-of-war. Girlfriend was keyed up.

As for me, I still had on all my work clothes including my heels:


Do you enjoy my art shot of the heels?

I took Tallulah outside to wait for Marvin and when he finally got outside, he said, "Let's get her harness, because it is important that I take 45 MORE years to get going on this walk." He headed inside, and Lula was prancing around like a stallion, smiling and biting her stupid leash and generally driving me berserk. I tried to wrestle the leash from her, and somehow?

I dropped it. I dropped her leash.

There was one split second where both she and I both said "Gasp!" and we looked right at each other in wide-eyed shock. That is right before I saw the back of her blond arse turn to dust as she screamed down the road.

I have always worried about what would happen if I ever somehow lost grip on the leash. She is the fastest runner at the dog park, and she is kind of shrimpy, so it's sort of impressive. I like that she runs fast, when she's all safe in a fenced-in area. Now she was loose in our neighborhood, and I had these towering wedge heels on.

In obedience school, they taught us to call them excitedly, that maybe they'd come back thinking we had something good.

Tallulah! I called, in a voice I hoped sounded like I was a hot large Lab male, with dangling steak earrings.

Puleeze. She did not even tell me to tell it to the paw. All I could tell was that she was running through everyone's back yard, because one after one, all the neighbor dogs would commence to barking. WOOF!woof woof woof. Then the next yard BARrararararar!

I started off down the road in those ridiculous heels, running like Mariah Carey. "Tallulah! Come here Tallulah!" I kept trying to sound chipper, like they told me in obedience school. I was trying not to sound hysterical. Finally, Vladimir Putin's best pal showed up. "I've lost Tallulah! The leash slipped out of my hand!"

"&*($%%*!" said Marvin. "How the @&#&#$ did that happen? $&#&**(!"

He started running in the neighbor's back yards, yelling for the dog. Suddenly, Lula tore into someone's front yard, and Marvin LEAPED into the air after her, like Joe Namath, because Joe Namath is the only football player I know of other than that Refrigerator person, and because the only football player Marvin can name is similarly Joe Namath, he also missed Tallulah and came crashing onto the neighbor's lawn.

"&*($$^$#!" said Marvin. "I ^***&^$$ had her!"

At this point, Marvin's hysteria made me get my mother's calm, you-are-insane-and-I-know-it therapist voice. "Honey," I said soothingly, "I wonder if you could not curse on the neighbor's lawn."

The next 20 minutes were spent with us following the sound of that dog's tags tingling through back yards, because it was black as pitch out and we couldn't see a thing. We split up at one point, and as I stood teetering in my heels, I saw a poor cat in a yard, and I said, "It's okay, kitty. I know a dog is loose, but I promise it likes cats." The cat came right over to me, and IT WAS WINSTON! He had been following us the whole time! He was looking for Tallulah, you could tell! He was looking toward the sound of the tags. I adore that cat, I always have, but I have never loved him more than I did last night. I scooped him up and teetered home with him. I knew I couldn't catch that dog.

I sat on the front porch with Winnie for a while, and at this point had decided we were going to lose Tallulah. She was going to get hit by a car, for sure. I was never going to want a dog again, and I was already trying to think of how to convince Marvin that I meant it. This was too awful.

Then I heard those tags tinging.

There she was, gallumping like a beat mule, her leash soaking wet and dragging behind her. Not to be obsessed with Gone With the Wind, but she looked a lot like that poor exhausted horse Rhett got the night Atlanta burned.

She sauntered right to our door, panting and smiling. I grabbed her up just like Melanie did and oh, I wanted to scream and yell at her, but at obedience school they said we have to make sure they're glad they came home. I took her stupid leash and wrapped it around my hand 950 times, and went to find Marvin. There he was, half a block away, and he had like 12,000 neighbors behind him. It looked like that scene in Frankenstein where the townspeople all come out with torches and pitchforks. Or a Verizon network commercial, where you're on your cell phone and all those people are behind you.

All the people whose back yards Tallulah and Marvin had run through had come out to help. They had flashlights and dog treats. I said, "Here she is!" and some kid ran up and hugged her. No one could believe she just came home on her own, with her jerky self.


I sorry. Kind of.

This is why I have  a new invention. It is the dog magnet. You put a powerful magnet on your dog's collar, and then you have a giant horseshoe magnet at home. When your dog does this, and scares the PEE out of you, all you have to do is go get the horseshoe, point it outside, and your dog is SUCKED UP onto the magnet.

It beats the Lean Cuisine Vending Machine all to crap, doesn't it?

Friends · June's stupid life

I wish they all could be middle-aged California girls

By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.

That was dramatic, wasn’t it? Did you think I was dropping out and turning on or something? Going back to my childhood and joining a vegan commune of some sort? The truth is, I’m at the beach.

My pal Sleeping Beauty is renting a big house on the Outer Banks, and she’s asked me to join her for a few days (which, by the way, means we are going to MAKE OUT CONSTANTLY, in Marvin's mind. Marvin seems to think that all women friends are just dying for an opportunity to make out. Whatever with his Spice Channel self).

The last time Sleeping Beauty and I rented anything, it was a cabin in Michigan when we were 22 and all we brought for a week was a big box of White Zinfandel and a bag of baby carrots. I wish I were making that up.


The Beaut and me on our baby carrot trip. We don't LOOK hungry! It's too bad we couldn't find bigger shirts.

I have never been to the Outer Banks, but if you whip out your trusty map of the US, you will see that the outer banks of North Carolina are like this little strip, this little finger, of land separating me and the ocean. I really, really hope there is not a tidal wave or a tsunami or whatever.

See how I can’t have fun? I can’t go to a beautiful beach with an old friend and enjoy myself. No. I have to think about being sucked into the ocean, and drowning to death, and will they have my funeral here in North Carolina or back in Michigan, and will my LA and Seattle friends show up, and will they play dumb music. I’m gonna be really mad if they say, “Oh, June loved I Got the Music in Me. Let’s play that." I can just see Marvin doing that to me as sort of a final joke.

When Marvin dies, he wants me to play 76 Trombones and Whoot! There it is. When I am particularly annoyed at him, I start to plan which I’ll play first, or will I be really mean and just constantly play Hotel California in the background. Seriously, he hears ONE NOTE of that song and stampedes for the button.

Marvin also wants a tombstone that reads, “I’m With Stupid” pointing at my tombstone, which of course is going to say, “I told you I was sick.”

I do not know why today’s post has taken such a morbid turn.

At any rate, tomorrow I am re-running one of my favorite posts, so we won’t have Ask June this week. Try to carry on. And no, I don’t have a Blackberry or iPhone or laptop to blog at the beach. First of all, no. And second, my husband is a fifth-grade teacher. We are lucky we have indoor plumbing. An iPhone. I wish.

When I get back I will award the Comment of the Week, so everyone be witty while I bask in the sun and get melanoma. And don’t forget to frickin’ vote for me. Even I’m getting sick of myself with that plea.

[Obligatory Henry baboon-butt picture]


Health · June's stupid life

Extra Value June

If you're just tuning in–and you know how I say that all the time, and I'm sort of being facetious? Yeah. The Nester mentioned me in her blog yesterday and I got like 11,000 visitors in one afternoon. So I'd like to think that SOMEONE stuck around from that. I mean, you throw a bunch of spaghetti on the wall, some of it's bound to stick, right? If it's wet.

I do not know why out of all the examples in the world I had to pick spaghetti on the wall.

ANYWAY, if you're just tuning in, I get migraines. They call us Migraineurs, and doesn't that just make you want to slap me silly? Migraineurs. It sounds like I should be half goat, half headache or something. So, as a MIGRAINEUR, I was prescribed a drug to make my migraines happen less often, and that drug is called Topamax.

See? Just saying it? It's like when you've broken up with someone and you hear their name after a few years, and your heart sort of flutters. Oh, Topamax.

Topamax not only got rid of my migraines, made me a Mirgra-not. A Migra-nyet. A Migra-never. It not only did that, but it made me thin! Thin thin thin! I totally, completely didn't care if I never ate another bite again. I got down to a size six, which I know was considered fat in The Devil Wears Prada, but for me it was like being Olive Oyl. Or that annoying stylist who has her own reality show. What's her name? Anyway, you always see her in Star now, with all her rib cage showing and rickets and growing fur and stuff.

The problem is, it also made me dumb as a stump. I really couldn't, you know, think. Which is kind of an issue, as you usually need thoughts to get through your day. I could make an obvious joke about that stylist again, but I'll abstain.

So my doctor said I had to quit Topamax. Because I couldn't go around being this stupid.

It's been about two weeks now, living without my great love Topamax. I've driven past his house a couple times, ON MY WAY TO ARBY'S DRIVE-THRU.

Guess what came back? Could it be my appetite? Did it come back with a vengeance? Am I gonna need my Totie Fields dress back soon?

The other day at work the power went out, which was exciting and I thought maybe we'd get sent home for the day, but anyway I couldn't microwave the lunch I brought. So naturally I went to McDonald's.

When I got back to work the power was on, so you know what I did? I microwaved my lunch. Even though I'd already HAD lunch. A BAD lunch.

Oh, I am doomed.

Has anyone tried eating a tapeworm? I'd be willing to give that a try. What if the whole time I'm at work I jog in place? Will that make me look insane? Insaner than eating two lunches in one day? I've had all these weight fluctuations at work; they're gonna think I'm Chandler Bing.

That's all I have to say about that. I miss you so bad, Topamax. I didn't care that I was stupid, just everyone around me did. They were JEALOUS, Topamax. Jealous of our love, and of my hot body. We were like Brangelina, hot and in love. We were Topajune. Junemax. And now I'm maxed-out June.

I will close with the obligatory Henry picture, so you will all leave me alone to eat in peace.


Fortunately he was right here next to me as I type. Probably wondering why mom is getting so big. He has a little scritch on his nose from tormenting some household pet or another. And speaking of our animals…


What are these two Bozos plotting?

(Oh. And don't forget to vote for me for hungriest blogger. Click on the red "Funniest" bar and search for 150 years for Bye Bye, Pie, because they keep moving my name around the page. Irritating.)