June's stupid life

The Fountainhead. Don’t put columns on my building!

Your fearless leader of Mince Words with June is mincing with death, is what she is. She left work at 3:00 and has been in bed in her stunning Delta College Tshirt ever since. Delta College is a community college. Fearless leader June attended said Delta the first year after high school because she graduated with a 0.000001.


That said, let's sniffle over to The Fountainhead, shall we?

I wasn't really smart enough for this book (see Delta college reference above). For example, did anyone really understand why Dominique wouldn't be with Roark, other than to build tension for the reader? It was some crap about how she admired him too much to not destroy him, and okay, what? I really didn't understand that part.

I enjoyed the whole Luke and Laura let-me-rape-you-and-then-we'll have-a-nice-relationship action, as well. What do you make of that scene? This was the only time I didn't like Howard Roarke, but I guess we're supposed to think that Dominique really wanted him even though she herself calls it rape. I also think it symbolizes how Roark will do what he wants, whether the rest of us see it as good or bad.

I was taught in college to never dismiss an offensive part of a book because "that's how it was back then." But I'm tempted to do that with the rape scene. Women were supposed to resist desiring someone.

Other than the part where he's a big rape-y pants, don't you wish you could be like Hoard Roarke, with his uncompromising ideals?? I am so not him. I would have been like Peter Keating, doing what everyone wanted me to do. Like participating in a book club discussion while I have swine flu.

But of course, the big crux of this book is the whole idea of objectivism, which means, as Ayn Rand herself said, "the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral
purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and
reason as his only absolute."

So, she's basically saying that in her world, we'd all be like Roark, only being happy living up to your own standards.

Well. You know what? She may be right. But the concept is so foreign to me that I can't hang with it. Throughout the entire book, I kept thinking, come on, Roark, just DO the assignment they gave you! Don't you want a nice career? And fame? And for everyone to like you?

Perhaps this makes me a putz. But I am completely influenced by everyone around me and by everyone else's standards. Do I betray my moral principles to make sure everyone likes me? Yes. I mean, if you all told me you wouldn't read me anymore unless I played that terrible Facebook quiz, "Should the president be killed"? I wouldn't do it. But I compromise in all sorts of subtle ways all the time.

So Howard Roark is selfish because he lives only to please himself, and I am selfish because I live only to please myself because I've pleased all of you. That's what I think. Either way, I think most of our motivations are selfish.

Now, what do you think about altruism, after reading this book? Ayn Rand said altruism permits no concept of a self-respecting, self-supporting man. Well, jeez Louise, this is so counter to how I grew up that I can't even stand it. There are people in my immediate family who give away more than I make in a year. Plus, I was the recipient of Pell Grants in college. Did that make me someone who didn't respect herself? No. But maybe that's because I had to work so hard to get the REST of my college money.

At any rate, I'm glad I read this book. It was interesting to look at life from her completely different perspective. And I think anyone's first reaction to something different is to shun it, and I'm trying hard to see and respect her point of view, even if I end up not agreeing with it.

Oh, and by the way, I found it ironic that I read this book, then looked online to see what I should think of this book. That is exactly the kind of activity that would have made Ayn Rand spit up.

So what'd you think?

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

Fountainhead tonight!

Remember, tonight is our first Mince Words with June, the official book club of this blog. As opposed to all those other book clubs that pop up here unofficially.

So get your Ding-Dongs (our official book club snack food) and get your comments ready. I will post my review of The Fountainhead at 9 p.m. Eastern Time, and then you all come on over here and write what YOU thought of it.

If you can't make it to book club tonight, feel free to come back and tell us what you thought about it when you can, or leave a comment here, if you want.

Since I won't blog until tonight, I will leave you with this beautiful visual. Kind of get you in the mood for some highfalutin' book discussion.

Wedding 001

My family is proud.

Okay, see you tonight!

June's stupid life · Marvin · Music

I’ve never met anyone quite like you before

The other day Marvin tells me my iPod is corrupted, which made me think my iPod met the wrong crowd and started smoking that cocaine, but apparently it just means all your songs go away and you have to put them back on again.

Marvin was only too happy to fill my iPod.

Let me tell you a little something about Marvin. He owns every song ever invented in the history of mankind. Also? Marvin is annoying.

We had houseguests once, and after they went to bed, Marvin listened to our guest's iPod, decided all her songs on it were stupid, then proceeded to stampede to the computer to change up all her tunes. I am not making this up. Unfortunately for him, she got up about an hour later, and came out to look for said iPod, which Marvin was wholeheartedly violating with stupid songs like Strawberry Letter 23.

Did I mention our guest was 21 at the time, and in no way, shape, or form would get a kick out of hearing Strawberry Letter 23, which was probably a song before she was a zygote?

So, part of my quest to weigh 102 pounds is I'm back to my running, which if you ask Tallulah means I'm back to an annoying trot. Because I have been taking this dog, this cheetah with floppy ears, out with me, and she is so.fed.up. with my slow pace. That dog runs like the wind. So when we go out, she is forever pulling as hard as she can, then looking back at me with pity, and slowing down to this patronizing sort of fast dog walk.

Hey, one of us is two.  And part Tibetan Spaniel. Is what I'm saying to you.


Naturally I am taking my iPod with us as we run, and I frankly do not know how Talu enjoys herself without an iPod. An iPawed.

Yesterday I forgot that Marvin put new songs in, because they were all regular things I like. It wasn't till today that I realized I want to cram this shiny magenta thing where the sun does not shine. And I don't mean Seattle.

Marvin. I know that you knew Michael Jackson. That does not translate to "your wife will want every Michael Jackson song ever written" in her ear. In fact, I really don't want ANY Michael Jackson songs. I am sorry.

And, yes, I know you hate the fact that I like ABBA. But Marv. I don't need eighteen ABBA songs. Give me one Dancing Queen and I'm on my way.

Do you have any idea how irritating it is to have to pull your iPod out, make the dog slam on her breaks, and plink plink plink through songs until you get one you like?

The final straw was when he added Hocus Pocus by Focus

A) You have never heard this song unless you grew up in Saginaw, or a similarly Saginaw-y town. Do some of your townswomen wear chains connecting their wallets to their belts? The straight women? Then okay. Maybe you've heard Hocus Pocus by Focus.

B) I was careful to pick the most exciting video I could find of Hocus Pocus by Focus. Enjoy the visuals. And please, stay until they start yodeling, I beg you. Really. They're going to yodel.

So, I have big plans tonight. Until midnight I will be preparing all my glycemic index diet foods (I cannot tell you how easy this diet is, other than the having-to-bring-everything-to-work part. I was not hungry all day) and then from midnight till 5:00 I will be removing stupid songs from my iPod.

Wait. Let me get it and just randomly choose five songs. So you can feel my pain.

1 Man, 1 Woman by ABBA. Okay, you see what I mean?

Jet Airliner by The Steve Miller Band. Seriously. Have you ever heard me wax on about how I like to jam out to The Steve ridiculous Miller Band?

I Can't Help It by Michael Jackson. I can't help filing for divorce.

Wanna B Startin' Something by Michael Jackson. See above re divorce proceedings.

Temptation by New Order. Okay, I love that song.

But Marvin, they made songs after 1987, you know. Don't argue with me on this.

You wanna be startin' something?

June's stupid life

In which June speaks of nothing and everything

Tallulah is staring at me. Someone is staring at you in Personal Growth. She is in the kitchen, peeking her head around the door. It's unnerving.

Okay, turned out she wanted to go outside. That was a terribly disturbing way to go about it, peeping at me like that.

Anyway, I was so involved in showing you my beautiful YouTube video in yesterday's post that I forgot to tell you I'm on a diet.

Oh, and before I delve into the part where I could really go for some baked brie and big pieces of french bread and also maybe some chocolate creme pie, I noticed that people who watched my boring YouTube video yesterday said, "I've never heard your voice before." Now, didn't you all watch my movie trailer?

Marvin and I are part of a documentary about people who collect photos of strangers–I mean, who DOESN'T do that?–and the filmmaker has made the trailer. Go click on that link if you want to see it. It took a while to download when I just looked at it and appreciated my bra strap all over again.

I keep thinking all the same people read this blog all the time, but new people come in and think, "I wonder if June likes to collect pictures of people she doesn't know?"

And as a matter of fact, I just ran across some pictures of people we don't know that I didn't even know we had. Here's one:

Popwdk 001

Now, I know I do not have to explain to other I-collect-pictures-of-people-I-don't-know aficionados (such as Faithful Reader Culpepper) why this picture is fabulous.

First of all, I just love to look at old houses. The main reason I loved Warner Bros. cartoons as a kid was I liked to look at the details of the houses from back then. The one about Marc Antony, the big dog with the baby kitten? Has GREAT '50s kitchen stuff.

So, yeah, I love the french doors, and that valance in the next room, and the wallpaper in the dining room. And then I am obsessed with what the women are wearing, and I am totally that guy standing up, who thinks he's hy-LAR-ious holding that appetizer on his head.

I don't know. They just look like they'd be fun people. With their black olives and their coffee. I can't help it. I find these photographs riveting.

Honestly. Do you know ANYONE who diverges from the topic further than I do? I was GOING to tell you about my diet, and then I got up and scanned this picture, and linked to the Marc Antony cartoon, and man, I'm annoying.

At any rate, I am on the glycemic index diet, which is supposed to keep your glycemics indexed or something. And you know, I'm not that starved? I mean, I stuck to it all day today and never once did any of the pets look like a delicious roast or anything. It took 72 hours to prepare everything to take to work tomorrow, because my usual snacks of Snickers and Dr Pepper are not indexed by Mr. Glycemia or whatev.

I have a goal weight in mind. Here's what I want to look like:


Okay, really, where's that appetizer? I am so putting it on my head.

June's stupid life

Oral hygiene with Talu

Enclosed please find a relatively boring YouTube video of Tallulah getting her teeth brushed for the first time. Won't you enjoy my Michigan accent?

I just came back from working out, and hadn't put any product in my hair yet, hence the part where I look like Garth. Party on.

Original music and "could you just hold it still?" camerawork by Marvin Gardens.

June's stupid life

What the blooming bush is going on?

It is a rainy, chilly Saturday here at world of June.

Here is my rain hair.


I put this picture on Facebook last night with the words to the Cowardly Lion's "Courage" speech. Because what makes the Sphinx the seventh wonder? Courage.

This hair is the eighth wonder.

And speaking of the strange and terrible, one of the bushes I planted just started blooming. I think it's a gardenia. How much do you like me for not remembering what it is? It could be an azalea, but either way, it's not supposed to bloom now, is it? When it's 63 and rainy? What gives?


Look at the brown fall leaves around it! It's like, incongruous plant!

You don't know how many fibers in my being want to go back out in the cold rain and pull that clover down there, and also those tall wispy weeds at right. The rain has made weeds just SHOOT up. But look at my pretty pink salvia! I said to Marvin today, "My salvia's going crazy" and he said, "Well, then, spit."

Who adores himself night and day?

In other news, half of my pets had to go to the vet today. (Yeah, no, I'm really not going to say fur children. Ever.)


We had to make sure Henry would not become a rabid kitten. It may be too late. Have you met his jerky personality? I like how the bars of the cage cover his eyes like he's a Glamour Don't.


Henry was accompanied by his large sister, Tallulah, who had to get some other annoying shot so she can hang around 57 dogs every day. Dog day care. It just gets cheaper.

They are at the vet in the photo above, along with Marvin's knee, waiting for the scary vet with trepidation. How ridunkulously blog-centric am I that I took a camera to the vet? I enjoy Lu's dog feet sliding out from under her on the linoleum floor.

And I guess that wraps up today, other than I bought a resistance band. I tried and tried not to buy it. Get it? Cause it's a resistance band? Oh, forget it.

Gonna go resist something.

Oh! Wait! There's more! Comment of the Week, which I forgot to do last week so Paula got two beautiful weeks with her crown, goes to Faithful Reader (and my former editor at our hard-hitting high school newspaper) The Chief.

Most convoluted sentence, ever. Edit it, The Chief.

So click on Special of the Week in the right column to see The Chief's editorial comments.

June's stupid life

2000 called. Wants its sweater back.

I just threw away my eggplant sweater. I don't mean that it was literally made from eggplants, cause, slimy. I loved that sweater, but it was gettin' ridiculous.


Okay, cause first of all, Robbie Krieger from The Doors called and wants his hair back. It's 99% humidity here today. I guess it's time for another Liquid Keratin treatment. But beyond my berserk hair, this sweater has had it. Note how it gapes up in the collar, and how fashionably lengthy it is, plus it has stretched out so that it covers my hands, like I constantly have sock puppets on.

I have no idea why Tinkerbell is on the lower-left side of this photo.

Here might be why this sweater is finally being retired. Because I bought this sweater with my sister-in-law when we both lived in LA. She had one child then, Emma, who was in her stroller as we shopped and she looked like this:

Emma 001

Emma happy to shop with Aunt June. Emma talk a little like Tallulah. How about some fashionable scrunchy socks, Aunt June?


Emma is ELEVEN now. She has her own cell phone. Time has passed, is what I am saying to you. She still totally rocks that jumper dress, though. Just like I do the eggplant sweater.

So, goodbye, sweater. You served me well.

But hey, guess what? While I was looking for a picture of Emma? I found this!!!

Lion 001

I know I talked about this picture about a year ago. I told you all I couldn't find the photo of the happiest moment of my life, and I told y'all to shut up about the part where you're supposed to say your wedding day was the happiest moment because HI I'M HOLDING A BABY LION.


It was some fundraiser for some animal rescue place, and for $10 they just TOTALLY LET YOU hang with a baby lion or tiger. There was a huge line, but I was first. And yes, most of the people were, you know, children, but they had to WAIT THEIR TURN! For I was holding a baby lion. Oh, it was fabulous. She FELT wild, you know? She felt kind of vibrate-y.

And the whole time my mother was in the background saying, "How do I know this lion won't eat my child? My 38-year-old child?"

And you know what makes me sad? It makes me sad that the happiest moment of my life had to be in my mother's sweatpants with pockets. We were on vacation and you do not even want to know what happened to my original pants that day. Really. Trust me. And there were NO OTHER PANTS besides those, so yes. Every time I look at this, I'm all, "Nice mom sweats." But still! I thought I had lost this photo forever! And I found it! Oh, sweet heavenly biscuits in the morning I found it!

Did I mention it was a moment to end all moments? Am I gettin' over the baby lion?

And finally. In summation. I also found this happy photo.

Ferry 001


I know this is in Seattle, because of the ferry action. Let's discuss just everything. First of all, am I a plush toy? What is with the fuzzy sweater? And such a snug fit! It would have looked great with mom's sweats. And am I Cruella DeVille? How many Dalmatians were sacrificed for that bag?

And finally, the earrings. Oh, those earrings. Am I wearing candelabra? Are those go-go dancer cages? Do they actually light up? And what made me say, "Oh! These enormous yellow and magenta earrings will go nicely with my blue stuffed animal sweater and Dalmatian bag!"

Wow! Someone's fashion sense needs a lifesaver. At least I didn't keep THAT sweater for 11 years.

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

If by “sexy” you mean “I look like Geraldo Rivera”

So I'm sitting there at work, and I feel this…this…

Heavenly days in the morning! That isn't a WHISKER, is it?

I stampeded to the giant Wicked Queen mirror in my office. (Seriously, you should see that gargantuan thing.) Sure enough, I had this GROWTH coming out of my face. I practically looked like one of my cats. Is my body anticipating that I will need to crawl through narrow spaces soon?

Your faithful June has been Nair-ing for years. Ever since 1999, when I went to get my eyebrows waxed and the woman said, "You want me to do mustache, too?" and I said, you know, good marketing on your part, missy, but I don't have a mustache. And she said, "Ohhhh, no. You dark like man!"

I dark like man? Really? I gave her the 15 bucks and told her to wax on. When I returned to work, I emailed my entire department. "I want to thank you all for not telling me that I am Tom Selleck," I wrote. And everybody in my department assured me that I was really not dark like man, that that eyebrow waxer had scammed me.


But I've Naired or waxed anyway, just to be safe. And now here I was at work, needing one of those mustache coffee mugs. What gives?

And do you think I could wait until I got home tonight to take care of it? As soon as it hit noon, I went screaming to my car and headed to Walgreen's for tweezers. I also called my mother. I don't know how she understood me, what with my handlebar brushing against the phone like that.

"I could practically tie Nell to the railroad tracks," I told her. "Honey," said my mother, who was trying to have a nice lunch with my Uncle Jim, who also has a mustache, "you do not look like Snidely Whiplash.

"You know, I don't have a problem with facial hair," she finished.

I know I have told you before how my mother does this. "I never get cavities," she'll say, after you've had four root canals. "I graduated college with a 4.0," she''ll tell you, after you get a 1.0 in Natural Science.

And I really hope my family is reading this today, because I know they can back me up on this. Come on, folks, help your masculine niece/cousin. Back a brother up.

Of course I had to buy the $37475638505945949405948 Tweezerman tweezer, which let me assure you is worth the money. Seriously. Mortgage your home. Once you use a Tweezerman, you won't go back.

The other "of course" in this scenario is I had to tell this gruesome tale to the computer guy at work, who for some reason is a good audience for all my drama. When I returned to work, he popped his head in to check on my '70s-porn-star-looking self. "Everything better now?"

"Yeah," I told him. "I was just registering for the draft."

I mean, SERIOUSLY, when did I get so unfeminine? I swear I used to be kind of hot. Now I'm hot in a Salvidor Dali kind of a way.

Gettin' old. It's not for the clean-shaven.

Dooce envy · June's stupid life

Bagging on Dooce. Hey, at least I stopped mentioning Casey Chase.

Everyone knows who Dooce is, right? I mean, I feel like an arse even linking to her, as she gets A MILLION hits a month, so who on earth doesn't know her? Okay, just go Google "Dooce" and you'll get right to her, if you don't know her blog.

As a recap, Dooce started blogging in the early part of this decade. In 2001, she got fired for blogging about work, and as a result got kind of famous for it. Now she has written two books, has been on Oprah and Today and all sorts of places I will never be. She has two kids and suffered postpartum depression and was really open about that. She now lives off the money she makes from her blog, and so does her husband.

There is Dooce in a nutshell.

People seem to be hostile to Dooce. I have even seen it here, when I have mentioned her in the past. You say her name and man! People get testy.

I think Dooce is funny, and that her pictures are great, and I am always interested in her posts. I have said before I doubt we'd be friends in real life, but so what? She's clearly compelling, to get that many people reading her blog.

Well, Dooce has done a marvelous thing. She has taken the many many many pieces of hate mail that she gets and has turned it into a page on her blog with a purposely obnoxious number of ads on the page, so she can finally make money from the hate.

Okay, come on. That is brilliant. I mean, people say terrible things to her, about her looks, her furniture, her family, her mothering skills. I would not be able to take it, not even for the supposed $40,000 a month she makes from blogging. I'm glad she has taken lemons and made lemonade.

Are you a Dooce disliker? A downright Dooce hater? Why? I really want to know. There is something about her that makes me feel a little peckish, too, and I can't quite figure out what it is. But mostly, I am on her side. More power to her, you know?

And what if you had a blog that big? Would you tolerate the dreadful email from people? Is it worth $40,000 a month to get attacked so much?

Do tell.

Beauty products · Books · June's stupid life · My pets

Nonpaper chase

You guys. Seriously. We need to find out who Casey Chase is. Portugal, Turkey, Viet Nam–ALL LOOKING for fricking Casey Chase here today. And when you Google him? All you get is my stupid blog.

WHO IS HE? Everyone on earth knows about him except us. Or else he's just a regular guy who everyone in the world is trying to find. Maybe he went to a really really big high school.

And of course, the more I write about the elusive Casey Chase, the more times people looking for him are going to just find this blog. I am sorry, people of the world! But good luck on your Casey chase.

Get it?


In the meantime, here are my feets.


In my navy blue polish. What do you think? Am I too goth? And oh, please. Please do not ask about the tattoos again. I have covered the tattoo thing many times. Go look somewhere in June of 2008. There's a whole post about them. Okay, really? Fine. Here's a link. DANG.

I just kind of skimmed that post about tattoos, and I cracked myself up by saying everyone and their mom had a tattoo in Seattle, except your mom's tattoo would just read "Self" instead on "Mom." Seriously, I slay my own self. My own mom self.

Also, yes, that is me in that baby picture. Look at the too-much-hair issue even at the tender age of whatever my tender age is. You know I have no idea. Seeing as I have no children, and my tattoo would not say "Self," I cannot tell the ages of anyone from birth to, like, 11.

And while we're up, those of you who have kids? Why do you say, "Oh, she's 44 months" instead of sort of rounding up or down to a year? Why don't you just say "She's almost four"? I have never understood the months thing. Explain, please.

So in that picture I am probably 18.045 months, but I can't be sure. What I can be sure of is I had a fashionable mop going already, didn't I? A little Ann Landers look, there. Dang.

That's my second "dang" already today.

While I was posing with my goth nails, I tried to take a group portrait with Tallulah, who is 21 months old, but here is what she did.


She totally made out with my nose parts, and I am unsure why. Maybe it's something Casey Chase encourages people to do. We have no way or knowing.

Oh! And before I go, do not forget to get The Fountainhead finished, because September 30 at 9 p.m. Eastern is when we meet for Mince Words with June, my new official book club. And don't forget that Ding-Dongs have become the official snack food of our book club. Because we are all weird in my comments section.

Have I encouraged you to read my comments? I swear they are funnier than this blog, which, woo! What a stretch.

Okay, smell ya.

June's stupid life

My wife is drunk

I just asked Marvin what I should blog about, and he said, "The time you got drunk and left your car in the parking lot."

Oh, that was terrible. I worked about 20 miles from home and I went out for drinks with coworkers after work, and a mere five hours later I was drunk as a skunk. I knew I was in trouble when I walked into the men's room, cause I was, you know, drunk.

So I called Marvin and said, "You HAVE to come get me!" in what was probably a loud, sloppy voice. He had to schlep all the way out to this bar, and when he got there, the place had officially turned into a club, and they said he couldn't come in because of what he was wearing.

He really shouldn't have shown up with his "Crips Forever" tshirt or whatever.

He explained to them about his intoxicated wife, so they let him in, and there I was, grinding on the dance floor with one of my gay coworkers.

You know what I am? A dignified wife. Do you think Prince Rainier had to do this a lot with Princess Grace?

He woke me up at SEVEN A.M. the next day, just to be mean, to drive back and get the car. Oh, I was sick. I had to bring a pillow for the drive.

When we got to my–brand new, by the way–car, he'd left a note on it: "My wife is drunk."

Every once in awhile one of us will just say that. "My wife is drunk."

Yeah. I'm glad he told me to tell you that story, because it puts me in a particularly flattering light.

Other than the part where my wife is drunk, I have not much new. I got a pedicure yesterday and opted for navy blue polish. It's all the rage, you know. And I don't have time to photograph it and upload it.

Also too? We are redoing our bathroom and I just bought a Shabby Chic etagere. Which, I don't know why they can't just call it a shelf that goes above the toilet. Anyway, I have liked it for months and I finally just crammed it into my cart yesterday at the Target there.

And special thanks for Faithful Reader and Target employee Statler Steve for his assistance. Not getting that thing into the cart, which would have been nice, but for helping me ID the thing cause I couldn't find it anywhere. 

It is Monday morning, but I am going to set this to publish at noon, so that everyone who refuses to read my blog over the weekend can catch up, and then boom! what a lovely surprise at noon. If you could call my blog a lovely surprise.

Okay, Grace Kelly is out of here.

Friends · June's stupid life · Marvin

Insert title few people will think is funny here

Yesterday, Marvin and I drove to Winston-Salem to get up with my friend Marianne. Which you already knew if you read yesterday. But two and a half people read me on Saturday, so I am telling you again. Or maybe I am just turning into my grandmother and repeating myself constantly. Did I ever tell you how I was brought up in a gas station during the depression?

Winston-Salem is about 45 minutes from us, and as usual we argued about what we were going to listen to on the drive. Because Marvin brought a CD of the 8-track you used to get when you bought the 1969 Chrysler. This cheerful man comes on and tells you all the things you should notice as you drive your new Chrysler, like how there's a special odometer that can tell you how long you've traveled on each trip!

Do you see what I'm saying to you? Who wants to listen to that?

Finally we settled on my '70s station on Sirius, and I am sorry to tell you that  Captain and Tennille's You Never Done it Like That came on.

If you were not alive during the '70s, the Captain and Tennille were this married couple who inexplicably had many many hit songs.


You Never Done it Like That is a song about Toni Tennille and her bob being very glad that some man has pulled out some new sexual technique.


"I really don't want to picture the Captain and Tennille doing it," I said to Marvin. "I know," he agreed.

After a moment, he said, "So what do you think he's doing?"

And I regret to inform you that the rest of our trip, we conjured up absolutely vile things that the Captain could have been doing to Tennille. Also too? We admitted we both pictured him doing all these things in his captain's hat.

Fortunately once we got up with Marianne (how much do you like me for continuing to say "got up with"?), there was a child present and we had to stop.


Marianne and her son Lake and an upside-down drink menu.

Most of the day was spent with Marvin and Lake trying to find yo-yos. Which, should I be worried that a nine-year-old wanted the same thing as a 43-year-old?

We also went to JC Penney, which I alluded to yesterday, and if you were one of the two and a half people who read me yesterday, I am certain you were on pins and needles about if I'd really get to go.

Turns out? Since I haven't been inside a Penney's since the Captain originally did it like that? They don't have furniture there. So there was no couch buying, or even observing. But Marianne and I did decide we had better take a picture looking outlandishly excited about SOMETHING in Penney's just to prove how boring we've become.


Why I gotta be the dramatic one?

Also, we saw a kiosk at the Penney's mall–and I'm certain whoever owns that mall is kissing me for referring to it as the Penney's mall–that made dog tags with your picture on them. Okay, who immediately wanted one? Who wastes her money at every turn? Marvin refused to take a picture with me, because he SUCKS, so Marianne did.


There's the picture we took. In a mere 850 minutes, they presented me with a lovely and tasteful dog tag. And yes, of course I picked up a scorpion belt.


Won't you enjoy my bosoms and my diamond-encrusted dog tag? Nice. I have no idea why I wanted this.

Finally, we headed home, and the '70s station played Leaving on a Midnight Train to Georgia, and Marvin said, "Okay, you sing the Gladys Knight part, and I'll be a pip."


I know you don't know Marvin, but I can tell from this picture that he is disputing something I'm saying right there. I can tell by the gesture. Sometimes I want to chop his arms clean off.

You KNOW I'm not allowed to sing in front of Marvin, so this was an exciting turn of events for yours truly.



"ON THAT MIDNIGHT TRAIN TO GEORGIA!" I think part of what offends Marvin is that not only do I sing badly, but also at the top of my lungs. Anyway, after a few minutes, Marvin started changing his parts.

"Leaving on a midnight train to get away from your voice. Woo-wooo!"


He should have married Toni Tennille.

Friends · June's stupid life

And the rest!

Today Marvin and I are getting together with my old friend Marianne and her son.

I know I have told you who Marianne is, but people come and go so quickly from this blog, and sometimes people don't read all 650 of my posts because they have lives, so I will recap.

I met Marianne soon after I moved to Seattle. Someone we both knew–who I will cleverly call Lois–dragged us to a rugby game on a Saturday morning. Lois was obsessed with rugby players.

We were not.

But Marianne had just moved to town from North Carolina and I had just moved to town from Michigan, so we were both pretty desperate for anything to do, because we knew almost no one.

So there we were, at a rugby game. In January. In the rain. Men were sticking cleats into each other's eye sockets like it was fun. We kept getting splattered with blood and bone shards. Marianne turned to me and said, "You wanna go back to the car and drink all the beer?" and I said, "Absolutely."

Lois didn't even notice. Did I mention she was a tad enamored of rugby players? Did I mention they could have started a whole new team, the "I Slept with Lois" team? Hell, they could have started a division.

We sat there with our six-pack, the rain pouring onto the windshield, and told each other our life stories.

From then on, we were inseparable. We went out dancing, we went to festivals, we rode the ferries, we just walked around Seattle and marveled at people. I lived in this trendy neighborhood, and every Saturday she'd come over and we'd go to the restaurant across from my house for breakfast. I am not kidding you when I tell you from that restaurant window, we would always see at least one person whose sex we could not determine. Always. Every Saturday.

We developed a theory that all the people with blue hair and orange hair and magenta hair? Their parents were troll dolls. Oh, we loved ourselves.

Even when I met my Seattle boyfriend, the one who married someone else two months after we broke up, Marianne was along constantly.

Feetnme 001

Here we are in 1994, leaving Kurt Cobain's memorial service at the Space Needle. I know that is totally a Seattle thing to be doing. The "I'm about to marry someone else" boyfriend took this shot. I like how somber we were. But really, we had been somber at the service. I am jamming out to my fringe coat and also Marianne's white leggings. Also, why do I try to have bangs with curly hair?

Oh! And as an aside, the boyfriend? Married a female rugby player. I am not even making that up.

When I got married, Marianne came to Michigan for my wedding. After the reception had quieted down, she and I sneaked off to the kitchen and stole a beer, then we sat in her rental car and drank it, just like old times. Except for the part where Lois was not digging a cleat out her rear end.

Anyway, Marianne lives back in NC now, and last night we were trying to decide where to meet. "Oh, I know a cool place in Winston-Salem," she said. I put her on the phone with Marvin so she could tell him where it was, because have you met me?

When Marvin handed back the phone, he said, "Marianne said there's a JC Penney nearby."

I grabbed the phone. "There's a JC Penney?" I yelled. "There's a slipcover couch on sale there that I really want to look at! We totally need a slipcover couch with these 86 pets."

Marianne said, "I could use a new slipcover, myself. Are just the slipcovers on sale?" "Yes!" I exclaimed.

We were quiet a minute.

"Are you laughing at us right now?" I asked her.

"We used to go out dancing till four, and now we're excited to look at a beige couch at JC Penney."

You think Penney's sells rugby shirts?

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

Penelope Cruise

There's this stupid commercial that comes on every morning on my clock radio. That was a subtle way of bragging that I have a clock radio. I know! You too can aspire to have the fancy things in life like June.

Anyway, it's a commercial for Alarm Force, which I assume is some kind of home alarm system. I have never actually listened to the commercial, I just know once they sing, "Alarm Force!" that both Marvin and I sing it too, from whatever room of the house we're in. Sometimes one or both of us will sing it several minutes later, too. It'd be a powerful ad if the rest of it were as compelling.

Hey, did you notice I started adding categories to my posts? For the last few nights I have been combing through my old posts and adding categories. "My pets" seems to be a popular one. I realized several months in that I should have had a TinyTown category, but really any post from January to April of 2008 is about TinyTown.



And speaking of towns, I can now tell you the thrilling story of how I almost peed my car.

About 50% of the reason we left LA was the traffic. I am not even kidding you. You know how traffic is kind of one of those stereotypical LA things, along with hanging at the beach (which you can never do due to traffic) and movie stars (who you can never see cause you're stuck in traffic)? Yeah.

I don't even know if I can describe for you how much traffic impacts your life there. I know a person who moved away after she was in mid-city on a regular street and it took her an hour to move a mile.

An HOUR to move a MILE.

If you make a friend at work? And you say, "We should get together outside of work sometime," you then have to ask where the person lives. "Silverlake," you'll say. "Riverside," the other person will say, defeated. You know you can't be friends because with traffic you are two hours apart. Each way.

I lived 16 miles from work and it took me an hour each way. You go about 10 or 20 mph on the freeway, which is why I got Sirius radio. Otherwise I would have impaled myself with my own grille or something. "Grille" is the only car term I know, and that's why I impaled myself with that, as opposed to the knock sensor. (I just asked Marvin to name a weird car part.)

The point of my story, here, is traffic sucks in LA. It sucks bad.

So you can imagine how nice it is to live here, and sail right onto the freeway every morning to go to work. I go 80 the whole way. Why so many tickets?

And here is the other thing. Because I can get to work so easily, I have time to ingest two gigantic mugs of coffee before I go. Mmm-hmmm.

Last Friday, I was cruising along to work, when I took an exit and all of a sudden (or all the sudden, if you want to irk me) traffic was stopped. I swear it's the first time that ever happened in my year and a half at this job. "Hunh," I said, and waited for traffic to start moving again.


I waited. And I waited. And I waited. And I went one-tenth of a mile in 20 minutes. I called the non-emergency police to see if they knew something was up. And here's what irks me about the South. I was transferred four places before anyone knew there was a horrendous holdup, but man, was everyone nice about it. "No, ma'am we don't take care of highway traffic, but ain't you got a pretty voice?"


Turns out some paving company was illegally paving, blah blah blah. But after 30 minutes? And I was still sitting there? I realized it was my pee time.

I get to work at 8:00, turn on my computer, and then, you know, I pee. Not right there in front of my computer. But here it was, 8:00, and I was 10 miles from work, STUCK IN TRAFFIC, no movement in sight. So to speak.

I sat there until about 8:20 before I really started to worry. I mean, I was NOT MOVING AT ALL. There appeared to be no end in sight. So again I did the adult thing. I called my mother.

"Honey, that's not healthy," she said. "Just pee your pants." Then she went on to tell me a story about a time SHE was stuck in traffic having to pee.

Okay, thanks, Dr. Phil.

And really, having to pee really bad is one of the worst feelings, isn't it?

At any rate, I finally was able to eek up to an exit, and you have never seen anyone scream up an exit ramp more dramatically. I stampeded to the first gas station I saw, and ran to the bathrooms.

The women's room was locked.

I went to the men's room. That is how much I did not care at that point. And can I just say. Men? Why am I attracted to you? Cause y'all are gross. 

And that was my dramatic and riveting how-I-almost-peed-in-the-car story.

Urine for a good time when you read my posts.

Car My car. It was white when this story began.

Family · Friends · June's stupid life · My pets · Photo essays

Picture book. Pictures of your June-a, and some of her dog-a, a long time ago.

I’ve got nothing interesting to blog about today, and if you’ll recall, last time that happened I ended up whipping out my I’m Irked columns from high school. Which is never a good sign.

Yeah, and you know what else? You know how you’re over there reading along, minding your own business, and right up there in blue is a link to one of my previous posts? Do you have any idea how LONG it takes me to do that? I had to remember when I wrote that post, which I couldn’t, so then I logged onto my blog and tried to find it, which I couldn’t, so then I had to GO ON TYPEPAD and SEARCH for it, and now here we are again, FIVE MINUTES LATER.

Okay, so five minutes isn’t that bad. But it was an annoying five minutes. Go enjoy the crap out of that link.

So, because I have nothing to tell you–I mean, really, things are copacetic. Busy time at work, Tallulah’s due for her shots, my CHI is making my life happy. I got nothing–I decided to go into my photos file and pick every 33rd photo and see if I could drum up anything interesting to say about them.

What can I tell you? I see the number 33 everywhere. Constantly. I have no idea what it means, except one time I found a list one of my old boyfriends had of all the women he slept with? And I was number THIRTY-THREE! Geez! Sleep around a little, would you, bub?

I was totally the Rolling Rock.

And that’s really about the time I started seeing the number 33 everywhere, and it happens so often now that I don’t even think about it. I got married at 33. I was given a sweatshirt by a friend, and the number on it is 33. You know how many cats I wish we had?


Okay, let’s drop June’s Weird Numerology and stampede to our photographs.


Ah, here I am at Sandy’s wedding this winter, along with a very nice guy who sat on my table who I will cleverly call “Roy.” And also an exit sign.

I was obsessed with not having any exit signs in my wedding pictures. I really was. And that is part of why I got married outside. Also? I was obsessed with not being photographed holding a beer with my wedding dress, and surely I have shown you the photo of me in my wedding finery with a beer bottle stuck down the front of my wedding dress.

Haven’t I? Well, it wasn’t in my count of every 33rd picture, so you’ll have to wait another day.


Ooo! Easter egg dye from when Jewish Marvin and I dyed eggs this year. I think this picture is kind of pretty. I don’t know why they make the other colors when all of my eggs are just going in the pink dye.

You know what I’m over? I am over beauty shops thinking “Curl Up and Dye” is a funny name. We GOT it, already.


These pictures are funny to me (and I’m sure you’re busting a gut, over there. Woo!) because they are in chronological order. I know I took this picture right after Easter, when I went back to Saginaw because of my uncle’s cancer.

I know! That IS hilarious, June! You know from funny!

Anyway, for Christmas, Marvin bought me the Children’s Zoo sign from my hometown. It was being auctioned on eBay and Faithful Reader Saginawman alerted him. Anyone who knows me knows I am obSESSED with the zoo in my hometown, and I have dragged everyone there 952 times. So this was the best gift, ever. Except this sign is enormous and we have no way to get it to North Carolina. Oops. So here it is in mom’s garage! Hi, sign! Heart you! Wish I had you here!

If you look closely you can see me in the photo, over on the right. See my Converse?


Oh look, it must be April. There’s Tallulah in her I-can’t-take-my-eyes-off-Henry phase when Henry was a teeny kitten. She did NOTHING but note that kitten’s every move. Look, she’s even pointing! See her little curled paw? She seriously had an issue. Glad she is over it.


Okay, it took her a WHILE to get over it. I swear it’s 33 pictures later, too.


Remember how irked I was that someone planted pink azaleas next to coral ones on the side of my house? I mean, HONESTLY, why would you put these colors NEXT to each other? In no way, shape or form do they look good together. ACK! Am getting nauseated.

I guess it still bothers me. THANKS, 33rd picture rat bastard.


Oh! Okay, so this was, you know, last weekend. That’s my friend Paula on the left. We lived together in Seattle. We also worked together in Seattle. We lived and worked together. We got into some classic fights. And yet we are still friends.

Paula follows the band Heart around the country. No, really, she does. Yes, Heart. From the ’70s and ’80s. Yes, they’re still together. I swear she is mostly a normal person. And a fine friend.

Well, I guess this wraps up another episode of June-has-nothing-to-blog about. Oh crap! I just remembered I could have told you about how I almost peed in my car the other day. Well, see? Now we have something to look forward to tomorrow.

Current Affairs · June's stupid life · Marvin

Coyote poo

You know how Marvin's alarm goes off at 5:00, but he doesn't get into the shower until he hears my alarm go off at 6:00, which means I have to LIE there and try not to pee in the bed until he's done luxuriating in the bubbles or whatever?


So today I'm lying there for what seemed like forever, and I knew the shower was no longer going, so I stomped in there. Marvin was standing in the bathroom, reading Oprah.


He needs to (a) read my chick magazine and (b) it needs to be done IN OUR ONE AND ONLY BATHROOM while I am trying to get ready? At least he wasn't standing in our Vintage Rickrack bathroom.

Plus, I hate it when one of my magazines comes and he doesn't leave it in our basket. He'll get the mail and go, "Oooo!" and steal off with my Vanity Fair or hard-hitting Star. Do I make off with his Boring Guitar Things Weekly when it comes? Never!

But none of this is why we are all sitting together enjoying our morning Jack and Coke. I called you together to ask if you heard abut Jessica Simpson's poor dog.

Jessica Simpson has one of those tiny I-live-in-Hollywood designer dogs, a maltipoo. For some reason I remember when Nick Lashay gave it to her. She was having a concert and it was her birthday and he walked on stage and gave it to her.

Do you HAVE a concert? Would you be GIVING a concert? Who on earth ATTENDS a Jessica Simpson concert?

Anyway I remember disapproving of giving a dog as a gift, because you know how I am. But Jessica Simpson seemed to really love that dog, and despite the trendy little dog combo breed thing, it was really cute.

This weekend it got eaten by a coyote.

Isn't that awful? Old Jessica Simpson saw it happen. It happened right in front of her.

Which obsessed me. Where WAS she? Was she hanging out with the Road Runner, exchanging celeb stories? Was she in line at FedEx to pick up her Acme package? Was she just out howling at the moon with her dog? Where did a coyote just amble up?

I mean, coyotes happen in LA, I can tell you that from personal experience. They were all over my neighborhood, because I lived by a giant park. I like coyotes, actually, and you know, we all BUILT onto their TERRITORY, and a girl's gotta eat. So I never took it personally when they munched our house pets. 

A coyote walked right up to my across-the-street neighbor's yard and took their cat right out. But I can't imagine that's what happened to old Jessica, because don't you assume her house has, you know, giant fences? So honestly, I want to hear the scenario. Because don't TELL me she took that teensy thing to a park and let it walk off leash. I will fly back and slap that vapid girl if I hear that.

Anyway, she is heartbroken, and I feel bad for her, I really do. She put signs up all over her neighborhood, which is silly, because as someone said on my deeply intellectual favorite website TMZ, "That maltipoo is already coyote poo."

Anyway, that's my celebrity gossip over here at house of June. Now maybe I'll go SHOWER, if the reading room is free.

Faithful Readers · Friends · June's stupid life · Times I Amused My Own Self

Hey baby, I’m your manly hands

So, if you read my comments, you know Hulk, seeing as he comments daily.

If you don't read my comments, Hulk is a friend from high school who I lost touch with until the magic, magic time-wasting world of Facebook entered my life.

Since Hulk friended me–and yes, "friended" has become a word and I am sorry–we have emailed each other, oh, 972 times a day. I do not know how either one of us gets any work done at work, so prolific are we with the emails.

Hulk and I discuss everything, from politics (on which we disagree vehemently) to Michigan accents to how clean we keep our cars.

I also know all about Hulk's love life, because he is newly divorced and it's kind of exciting. For me, anyway. I get to hear all about his swinging singleness. His Uncle Bill/Larry from Three's Company/Willona from Good Times swinging single life.

Once, I asked Marvin if he was jealous that Hulk got to live wild and free as he does, and Marvin said, "Not really. I mean, he's sleeping with a bunch of Saginaw women."


I hate to break it to Marvin, but who does he think HE'S bedding down with every night? I'm not exactly from Milan.

Anyway, there was a woman in Hulk's past who he broke up with, and when I asked him why they broke up, he gave all the usual boring-ass reasons you break up with someone. Oh, we grew apart, we wanted different things, blah blah blah.

And then he said, "And she had man hands."


For some reason? This killed me. KILLED.ME. Man hands. It was just so ridiculous.


Today Hulk emails me, as he is wont to do, and tells me old Man Hands tried to Facebook friend him and he turned her down. Tell it to the hand.

Naturally, this lead me to start sending Hulk 4832745949027595038474950388489509373u2y4y4474746 fake Facebook status updates from the woman with man hands.

"Participated in Hands Across America. Alone."

"Literally had hands across the water, hands across the sky."

Hulk told me this person would never update her status, as they don't make keyboards big enough. Oh, the two of us are headed straight to hell.

All afternoon I slayed myself with the status updates. Then I enlisted my friends David and Frankie.

"Just got engaged. Ring came from Saturn."

"Performed CPR on a T-Rex."

"Landed new account. Fist-bumped boss. Boss out for two weeks."

"Smacked a bug on the wall. My one-bedroom just became a studio."

"Danced to YMCA. Knocked out three other dancers by the time I got to M."

Okay, come on. You know you want to bug Hulk with some updates from Man Hands. Because did I mention? The fun of this wore off for Hulk about six hours ago and I am still hysTERical over the whole thing.

Come on. Give me a hand.

June's stupid life · Marvin

A New Lowe


We didn't have any plans this weekend, which is kind of rare, and I always get excited about having no prescribed activities, then by Sunday I am always depressed about having no prescribed activities. I do not know what to tell you, other than I am batshit crazy.

And that's why I said, "Let's paint a room today!" like that's just something you wake up and do. Marvin, who equally has guano in his medulla said, "Yeah, okay. We'll go to Lowe's."

I don't know if you have noticed this, but all of our walls are of the beige genre. You have never met anyone more ill-equipped to live inside beige walls. I need color! Drama! Mood! Intrigue! I need azure, mahogany, jade, orchid!

Beige. Have you met me? I couldn't BE less beige.

Naturally, I was thinking we'd paint the living room chocolate, or the dining room sage. But Marvin said, "Let's paint the bathroom."

Okay, really? Our bathroom is the size of an airplane bathroom. Who wants to paint that little tiny space? Who cares? We could cover the whole thing using one of my nail polish bottles.

"Come into the bathroom," Marvin said. I'm telling you, that room is so small you can't even change your mind, but somehow we both wedged into it. Marvin closed the door. "Why are we closing the door?" I asked. "There's no one else here to SEE us in the bathroom."

"Look at the door frame," Marvin, who enjoys vanilla ice cream, said. "It's peeling. We can get some white paint and fix it right up."

Okay, HONESTLY. When did I marry Pat Boone? Could he be less fun? I said, "I really like the color of the ceiling in here." Inexplicably, our otherwise in-the-family-of-beige bathroom has an icy blue-green ceiling. It's pretty. "Let's work with that color," I said.

Now here is the part where none of us will ever understand Marvin, ever. "Yeah," he said, "that color IS nice. Let's paint it that color, and paint the door silver."


SILVER. Hi-ho.

"Honey, this isn't R2D2's bathroom. SILVER? No; who are you, Grace Jones? We're not painting it silver."

Naturally, being two adults, we did the grownup thing. We called my mother. She asked if we could get a chip of the paint, which we could because that bathroom is chips ahoy, in there, I'm telling you. She said we were to take said chip and compare paint colors at Lowe's. Which of course had not occurred to either one of us. Not me, and not Shel Silverstein, over there.

So Marvin stood on the tub and plinked a piece of that paint off, and then Marvin does what Marvin always does, and I know I have kvetched to you about this before. He did FIFTY-NINE OTHER THINGS before we could go.

"Let me just download this song from 1852."

"Let me just call this guy I haven't talked to since Hebrew school."

"Let me just memorize the names of all my bones and ligaments, and reassign them new names, like Ted and Horace."

HONESTLY. It's like someone paid him to torture me for the rest of time.

I have no idea if your ligaments have names.

Finally, twelve centuries later, we got in the car. We hadn't gone a block before Marvin started convulsing and swerving. "WHAT?" I groused.

"There's a spider on me," he said. "And now it's off me and it's somewhere in the car."

"It's FINE," I told him, figuring he was having another of his "there's an ant on me" flashbacks. "Just DRIVE."

Three seconds later I saw this–this CANNONBALL on my arm. This giant black hairy SPUTNIK , climbing up my limb. Naturally I said, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKK!" and Marvin had to pull over. Oh holy mother of God, that spider was ludicrous. It was like the one Peter Brady had on him in Hawaii. It was like some spider from a movie where there was a nuclear accident or something. Geez.

After that tragedy, we finally pulled in to Lowe's, where Marvin said, "I forgot the paint chip."


We discussed going back home, but I was afraid we'd pass the spider and it'd jump back in the car, so we decided just to go in there and pick out paint colors we liked. At this point it had gotten so late, what with Marvin's plans for a new undersea world he had to draw up before we left, that we'd already decided to just get samples and decide next week. Cause who is gonna make plans with the two of us?

So we picked samples and here's what we came up with. Here's what I liked:


Mmm! Anjou Pear! Pretty! Soothing! So chic!

Here's what Marvin picked:


Howard Johnson's called. Want their decorator back.

And I KNOW I said I needed cornflower and sunset and turquoise. Okay, I didn't really MEAN it. IN WHAT WORLD would that teeny tiny bathroom look good in VINTAGE RICKRACK? I will never poop again if I live in that frenetic sherbet shade.

So, the bathroom remains untouched and color-me-beige.



At least someone is getting along in this house of paint chips.