Faithful Readers · June's stupid life · Money

Screen doors, Marvin thwarts, and cupcake floss

You'll notice I'm not at Home Depot, getting my screen door. Oh, did I not tell you I found a screen door I liked? One of you told me they had wooden screen doors there, just like I liked, and they were less then $200 when I looked! I was so excited, and I emailed a photo to Marvin.

"What are you bugging me about now, woman?" was his reply back. He wrote me back from his stressful summer job. Have I told you about Marvin's stressful summer job yet? He is sitting on a private LAKE all summer reading MY Kindle, waiting for poor beleaguered kids who don't actually live around said lake to show up. If they don't belong there (the kids who live there have wrist bands or money clips or something), Marvin kicks them out. That's it. That's what he does all day. Sits on a lake and kicks out the riff-raff.

So you can see how he wouldn't want to be disturbed at that hard job. Anyway, I was so excited that we could get a screen door, and I just had to hold out until today, when he said, "We can't get a screen door. Our doorway is 35-and-a-half inches and those doors are 36 inches."

I just know there is a way to put in the door. I JUST KNOW IT. But Marvin likes to ruin all my fun and make my life hell. I wish I were a huge tomboy type and knew from door-putting-in so I could say, "Nonsense. We just have to bluh-bluh-bluh the bloodey-bloo."

I know we just have to bluh bluh bluh the bloodey bloo. Marvin is keeping the truth from me.

In other news, I am also thinking of getting this rug for the dining room.


Do you know the only good part about having a full-time job and 87 outstanding freelance projects that you are committed to doing with all your free time? You have scads of money. Who knew that hard work resulted in financial reward? Why didn't anyone ever tell me this?

It's made of recycled plastic bottles and packing materials. The rug, not my hard work. So you can hose it off rather than do whatever fancy things you have to do to clean an Oriental rug in real life. I feel weird saying "Oriental." I feel like not unlike Marvin's grandmother, who used to call all Asian people "Chinamen."

Probably I'll decide to get this and Marvin will say our floors are 35-and-a-half inches.

And my final purchase today is for Faithful Reader and fine artist Mrs. Oh, who made me my nice Bee Gees picture yesterday when I asked everyone to send me photos of Henry with Barry Gibb hair. If you did not read my blog this week you are totally lost.


I mean, look at the craft that went into this photo. And 'shopping. And she even chose the characters perfectly. Of COURSE Robin would be Francis. And Winston would be easygoing Maurice.

This is why I decided that even though Mrs. Oh did not win the coveted inflatable fruitcake for being the FIRST faithful reader to send me a photo, she is winning an honorable mention gift of cupcake-frosting-flavored dental floss.

You go, Mrs. Oh.

That is all I have to tell you. Oh, and Dawn in Austin is our commenter of the week. Click This Week's Special. Because I giggled all week at "cluck on a couch."

Faithful Readers · June's stupid life · My pets


You would die if you knew how many people sent me pictures of Henry with Barry Gibb hair.



Henry Gibb II 

Faithful Reader Christine sent a really good one in Flicker, which won't let me cut and paste. Stupid Flicker. Here's the link.


But it was Faithful Reader Rebecca who sent in her photo first (above), winning her the coveted inflatable fruitcake. I like that she included the eagle medallion, which of course Henry would wear.


I know! Lucky! It's a $6.95 value. June's blog. Where you come for the good contests.

Thanks to everyone for sending me your photos of Benry Gibb. Or Barnry. I wanted to show everyone's picture but I got so many that I didn't have time to download them all.

Oh, but there was one more I wanted to show you, because you are gonna spit up.


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

Dr. June

Well, here I go. Back to real life. Fortunately I don't mind so much. I always think if you get back from a vacation and you're absolutely miserable to be back, you should rethink your life.

Dr. June. I should have my own TV show. Did I ever tell you when I lived in LA, I had a friend who lived right next to the Paramount Pictures studio, and right in the shadow of her apartment was a GIANT wall photo of Dr. Phil? His big egg head was staring at me every time I went to visit her, asking me how that was working out for me.

Did anyone read The Great Gatsby? Do you remember the part about the billboard with the big eyes? It was like that. 

While I have been writing this important tome, Henry has been at the closet in this room, meowing. When he was a kitten, I had a dangly toy in there that I hung up. I'd drag it down and hold the stick and he'd LEAP after it over and over again, but the thing is, he totally destroyed it. So it's seriously been a year since that toy has been up there, but do you know that EVERY DAY that poor cat goes to the door of the closet and meows at me, thinking that toy is still there and I am just failing to play with him?

I guess a good cat owner would have maybe replaced the toy.

Anyway, so just now he was mowing and pressing on the door, and somehow the door popped open and he got sucked back there, and now he is stuck in the closet and I hate to tell you but to me that is hilarious. I can hear him leaping on all the shelves looking for the toy.

And isn't that what we all do? Keep looking for the thing that made us happy once? I mean, it's why Barry Gibb doesn't update the hair. He keeps the hairdo he had when he was happiest, back when he was the man. It's why Pam Anderson keeps showing up naked everywhere. I am SO still a bombshell!

We get one happy time and then spend the rest of our lives trying to get it back.

Have I mentioned I'm Dr. June today? Does anyone need any advice? I think Marvin should always be in my blog audience, like a giant loser with no life, and at the end of my blog we should walk out together.

Speaking of which, I caught the end of a TV special on John Lennon last night, and he was in concert, and right there next to him, ON STAGE, was my very very favorite person, Yoko. She had done some unfortunate layer thing with her hair, and she'd "play" one note on whatever instrument they had her on on stage which probably was unplugged or had the wires ripped out of or something, and anyway, she kept LOOKING at him under that layered hair.

You know, every Asian woman I see has absolutely lovely hair except Yoko Ono. She is the only Asian with the bad hair.

I wonder if Dr. June could cover more topics today.

You do have to hand it to my favorite person who doesn't bother me in the slightest, Yoko, though. She did not keep the "this is when I was happiest" hair. She cut that mess and it looks infinitely better.

Wouldn't it be hilarious if she got to heaven and John Lennon had met someone else? Or if all the remaining Doors guys got there and Jim Morrison was all, "Yeah, I started another band."

If you have not watched 7833028 Doors documentaries like I have, you may not know the part about how those guys from the Doors seem to do nothing else but talk about Jim Morrison. I mean, get over it. Okay. He was charismatic. He danced with Indian ghosts one night in concert when you were HIGH ON THE ACID. Move on.

Poor Henry is still in the closet. Not moving on. When I open the door he'll probably have Barry Gibb hair.

The first person to send me a Photoshopped Henry-with-Barry-Gibb-hair photo gets the inflatable fruitcake that Joann never received (you never sent me your address, Joann!).


Marvin/Robin and I have to go now.

Family · June's stupid life · Photo essays

June’s vacation pictures. …Hey! Where ya going?

Remember when the Jews wandered the desert for 40 years? That was nothing compared to me trying to get home from effing Colorado last night. Holy Katie H. Crap.

I was in FOUR airports. I traveled for FOURTEEN hours. This would make sense if Aunt Mary lived in, say, Amsterdam, but she's like FOUR STATES AWAY.

Who was cranky when she got home with the chickens at dawn's early light this morning? Who had two plane delays, a breakneck run from one airline to another, an airport train that got STUCK IN THE TUNNEL, rendering me UNABLE TO BREATHE I was so panicky being caught in that concrete tube surrounding the train, and NO FOOD ON ANY PLANE WHATSOEVER?

So it was a good trip home. Happy today. Feeling perky. Looking good.

I woke up spooning Tallulah, my chin on her fairly smelly head. I love her so bad.

Anyway, let me spin you a yarn about my trip photos.


Here is a photo of my aunt and me and our identical ventriloquist chin issue. Also, I like how the rectangle of my camera is shading my face. Is my father a photographer? Had he come with us on our walk this day we would not have had this tragedy.


I admired Aunt Mary's purple toenail polish.


Aunt Mary has a convertible, and 28385038533145 visors to protect her from the sun and/or serve to make her look authentic when she deals at the blackjack table. I have decided I want a convertible now. I never wanted one before. My dream car is a Mini Cooper. Now I want a Mini Cooper convertible. I cannot afford a Mini Cooper, and I really can't afford a Mini Cooper convertible.


I liked my father's silver bracelet. Very Crazy Hearts.


My aunt has two cats, who you know I left alone and didn't poke at or kiss or talk in high squeaky voices to or anything. Her cats are old, like 17 or something, so you can imagine how they were hep to my attentions. This is Alfie. Every time he saw me he left the room. I LOB UUUU ALFEEEEEE! kisskissskissskiss!!!


On my last day there, Leon finally swung at me. So sick of me. Why this small-hair bitch kiss Leon? Leon old man. Leon still kill you with claw, you push Leon.

Both my father and aunt like to cook, and they go around talking about recipes like it's interesting. This was a pie with blueberries and nectarines that I ate 478 pieces of.

Oh, and by the way, on last night's hellish airport trip, I had on my Bye Bye Pie tshirt but I forgot, since I was undergoing psychological torture that perhaps Gitmo ought to look into, and anyway some guy at the magazine store said, "You not like pie?" I said "What?" about three times before I figured out he was reading my shirt and wondered why I was saying bye bye to pie. Oh, dear.


We did lots of short day trips, including going to the farmers market in a nearby town. To buy diva-ish peaches with human features.

When I was there, I bought something for my mother-in-law, and remind me, after my mother-in-law's birthday, to tell you how annoying the person was who sold it to me. For those of you selling things at street fairs? Customer service, folks. Customer service.


Dad fell for this magnet bracelet, he was DRAWN to it, even though he already has a bracelet (see above), because this one is supposed to cure all ills.


Apparently it doesn't cure immaturity.

We went to a different town and shopped another day, and I got a necklace that has an Eiffel Tower, a French coin, and a silvery sparkly kind of ball on it. Hello, everything I like. Dad needed a pin cushion and he found this voodoo doll. Hope he doesn't name it June.

Speaking of necklaces, this is the diamond and ruby necklace Aunt Mary got me for my birthday. Are you dying? Are you wondering if I could have more age spots? Do you think I got enough sun in my lifetime? Anyway, love the necklace. Love my aged, leather skin. When I die you can make a couch from me.


Of course, we were there to celebrate Mary's birthday. Here is dad wrapping her gifts in the fish paper he brought. I do not mean it literally wrapped fish first, cause, ew.

When my father handed Mary her gifts and card, we noticed it kind of looks like he wrote, "Happy birthland, Mary" which really makes no sense. I mean, we weren't even in the town where she was born.


My father is always teasing Aunt Mary about her finger injuries. It's true that she seems to frequently cut or break or sprain or catch her fingers in things. On my father's eighth birthday, Aunt Mary stuck her fingers in the lawn mower, which was not one of her more MENSA moves, and his whole birthday was ruined because she got blood everywhere and they had to go to the ER. This is one of the gifts he got her, this glove you wear in the kitchen that you supposedly cannot cut through.

Then Aunt Mary didn't wear it to cut her ice cream cake and almost cut the crap out of her finger.


Here is my Aunt Mary's husband, my nice Uncle Omar, who (a) had to put up with family visiting and (z) gave her the trip to London for her birthday. He is a prince of a man.

Also he likes cats. And he has a rooster on his shoulder, which could be like having a monkey on your back but I'm not sure.

I guess that's all I have to show you. Lucky for you, my father took 11,934 photos that he will send me soon so there COULD BE MORE SHOTS! Tune in tomorrow! I know you'll stampede back for that.

Faithful Readers · June's stupid life

I do not exist

I cannot blog today, although clearly I AM blogging, so what a cold-blooded liar I am. But this is my last day here on vacation, so I must, you know, vacation. However, I wanted to check in and tell you I'm (a) not dead, because I know how ya'll get twisted in your panty parts when you don't hear from me, and (2) ask you about Jillian.

Who is still working out to their Jillian DVD, the one I insisted we all go out and buy so we could get emaciated together? I pretty much forgot all about her flared-nostril self the minute I started my new job. Did anyone stick with it?

Let me know.

Talk to you tomorrow when I am home. I can show you all my vacation shots. There's nothing more exciting than someone else's vacation shots. And I'll be sure to stop you when you're flipping through them. "Oh, wait! This is from when…"

P.S.I just checked Facebook, because nice vacationing, and Hulk, you better tell us why you're single again.

P.P.S. Hulk, is it okay if I announce to the entire viewing audience that you're single?

Family · June's stupid life

The weather is here. Wish you were beautiful.

Who watched the season premiere of Mad Men last night? Best line of the show was, "They couldn't even afford to send a whole interviewer."

If you don't watch Mad Men, you are already bored silly by today's post.

Yesterday was my aunt's official birthday, and we had a high time. I do not mean we passed the dutchie. My father made a big dinner which involved chicken and peanut sauce and it was the most delicious thing I ever ate in my life. Also there were soba noodles, which were similarly delish, even though I have no idea what a soba noodle is. To me it sounds like something you'd eat on the couch.

People in Michigan say "davenport" when they mean "couch." Do they do that anywhere else?

I got my Aunt Mary an emerald ring from the Sundance Catalog. I was so excited to give it to her I was ready to spit up. My father got her a genealogy kit from National Geographic, which he had similarly bought for me and for himself years ago.

National Geographic is doing this study on where everyone originated thousands of years ago. So they send you this kit and you swab your cheek and they send you this whole report on your haplogroup, which is the group of people your ancestors were. Everyone came from Africa originally, but then eventually people said, "Africa is hot and I'm sick to death of zebras. Let's see what else is out there." So they all WALKED to other, you know, continents. They did not get on Expedia.

So my father and I had relatives who left Africa and went on to Turkey, and then to western Europe. Isn't that interesting? I don't even LOOK Turkish. Or enjoy Turkish taffy.

The reason it'll be cool to get Aunt Mary's haplogroup is women's DNA samples are more revealing, and mine had my mother's people mixed in there, of course, so Aunt Mary's could tell us more about this side of the family. Maybe we went from Africa to Pasadena or something.

Anyway, the other good thing my aunt got for her birthday was from her husband, my Uncle Omar, whose name is not actually Omar. He is taking her to London for Christmas! Isn't that cool? As soon as she opened her gift, my father said, "Oh, did I mention I wanted to come here and visit for Christmas?"

Everyone's a comedian. Mary said she'd decorate and he could come to her empty house.

I guess I have to stop typing now because a minute ago I was in this room alone, and suddenly it's like when you go to the bathroom and all your pets have to run in with you. Every paternal relative I have is crammed in here with me.

Perhaps everyone moved from Africa to this room.

Family · June's stupid life

Wind Beneath My Grill

In case you were worried sick, I am still on vacation in Colorado. I did not storm home in any sort of family drama huff or anything. In fact, we went to my Aunt Mary's downtown–not that she owns the downtown, and why not? Doesn't it irritate you that none of your relatives are filthy rich?–and did a little (wait for it) shopping yesterday.

As promised, my father checked out the downtown bar. He was back in five minutes, though, as apparently the only other patron in there was some guy with an oxygen tank, drinking coffee, and when my father sat down he nodded hello at Dad. Then a few minutes later he nodded hello again, and then Dad noticed he nodded hello to his invisible friends next to him and was mouthing words but no sounds were coming out. It really wasn't the jovial I'm-drinking-while-the-womenfolk-are-shopping scene he was aiming for.

So he joined us, and ate a lot of the free donuts and suckers offered at various stores. Which is just as good as four beers in a dark bar. Don't you think?

I did not buy anything. Truth be told, Marvin and I are saving up for a screen door. I know. We really know how to live large. But we need a screen back door so bad. I want an old wooden flappy one that I will inevitably purchase off eBay or Craigslist or something. Remember the screen door on The Waltons? It always gave that satisfying smack when Erin or Jim-Bob ran out the door.

From now on I want you to call me June-Bob.

I also want one of those metal screen doors with the initial in the middle. I love those. I don't even care if it's not my initial. Marvin, if you're reading this, go look on Craigslist. How much could those screen doors be? No one wants them but us.

The point of this whole drawn-out tale is that eventually we came back home and were sitting around talking and paging through magazines and such when all of a sudden my Aunt Mary became hysterical. She laughed and she laughed and she laughed, and I noticed she had one of those old lady catalogs, which I have blogged about before, how we enjoy those old lady catalogs my grandmother used to get.

My aunt was in a heap on the couch, so I took the catalog out of her weakened hand and found this:


These are pieces of charcoal you stick to your underwear. When pesky gas occurs, these absorb any odor.

I am not making this up.

I mean, how bad are things in your rear parts that you need this? And I can't help thinking of when my grandmother got old and ceased to care, and would just lean way over in her chair when flatulence came on.

My father pointed out that a better name for this product would have been Tooty-Fruity.

So that's been our sophisticated weekend. This is probably what the Hemingways did when they got together, too. For Whom the Bell Toots.

Anyway. Today is my aunt's actual birthday, and we are going to the Farmers Market and then my father is making a fancy dinner and I cannot wait for Aunt Mary to open my gift. It's a good one. I forgot to tell you she gave me my birthday present when I got here, and it's a beautiful ruby and diamond necklace! I guess I got a fancy gift cause 45 is one of those milestone birthdays. You know, sort of.

I am off to market farmers or whatever. And to pass wind into a briquette. 

Family · June's stupid life


So other than our car accident, it's been a lovely trip so far.

My father drove in from New Mexico, and obviously I flew here to Colorado, and we showed up at the same time, which is exciting. Kind of like in a sitcom where someone is having a party and the doorbell rings and 89 people come through the door.

Maybe when my Aunt Mary opens her birthday presents tomorrow they'll be perfectly wrapped but all she has to do is lift off the top, too. TV shows are realistic, is what they are.

 Anyway, my aunt made a delicious dinner that involved a salad with cherry tomatoes from her garden, and everyone got annoyed with me because I kept taking all the cherry tomatoes but they were GOOD, and there is such a huge difference between a real tomato and those red globes of plastic they sell at the store, and because we had eaten something healthy I had to get back in balance so I said, "Let's go to Dairy Queen!"

Everyone was hep to that idea.

My father's little car was in the driveway. I don't know from cars. It's little and it's black. Do you feel like you were here, with that detailed description? It doesn't have a back seat, and he and I drove all the way across the country in it once with his 6"4' self and that was roomy.

At any rate, we're all laughing and talking as my Aunt Mary is backing out the driveway and I was thinking, "You know, she's certainly getting close to my father's car" when BOOM! she smacked right into it.

Guess who forgot there was a car in her driveway?

Oh, she felt just awful. My aunt's car is red, so there's this huge pink crumple on the front of my father's car. He says it looks like he ran into a pink poodle or something. Anyway he isn't upset at all, but she's mortified.

It didn't stop us from getting ice cream, of course, and after we got our Peanut Buster Blizzards, which my father had never had and accidentally called a Buzzard, he said, "You know, maybe you're getting too old to drive, Mary. Maybe we need to take your license away."

You can imagine how pleased she was to be teased in this fashion.

I tried to change the subject by bringing up how I'd already photographed her refrigerator magnet that reads, "Shop," which if you knew my Aunt Mary you'd know was kind of a redundant command, but it only led my father to ask, "Are you forgetting to shop?"

So I figure you'll be hearing about a family murder/suicide in Colorado sometime this afternoon.

Family · June's stupid life

Silver bird takes me ‘cross the sky

Fortunately, I have nothing to tell you today that's gonna piss anybody off. Unless me flying across the country to spend time with family angers anyone. Ooo, what if environmentalists are reading this? Did I mention I'm flying a private plane?

Yes, my family name is American Airlines. Everybody off this thing! It's my plane!

My Aunt Mary, the one who likes to shop, turns…a certain age this weekend, and my father and I are flying to Colorado to help her celebrate said age.

Mary My Aunt Mary was lying in bed a few months ago, probably under sheets she had shopped for recently, and she was thinking about how I'd be 45 this year. And how that was, you know, old. Then all of a sudden she thought, "OH MY GOD, I'M GONNA BE [insert certain age here]!"

So we're making the best of it. My father is cooking a special dinner. I think my Aunt Mary is cooking special things too. I will be, you know, eating them.

Also, Aunt Mary wants to take me shopping at her favorite store downtown, and my father thought he'd …check out the bar nearby.

So it should be a good trip. Tallulah saw my pink suitcase and is refusing to speak to me. She just huffed out the door to daycare with nary a goodbye. I had to hug her from the back, like I was Heimliching her.

I am unsure of Aunt Mary's computer sitch, but will try to blog when I can. In the meantime, argue amongst yourselves.

Oh! But I did want to show you a photo of cheerful Francis before I go. Ever since my birthday last week, this happy bear and balloon combo that Marvin put on my breakfast-in-bed tray has been on Franny's window sill.


Look at Fran arse, effin' bear.

I love seeing his hateful self next to this message of cheer. 

But look! It's made him nice to Winston. Perhaps Bear of Joy has special powers. I'm gonna leave it up there. Maybe by the time I get back Francis will be the friendliest cat on earth. And my butthole will be speaking Ugandan. Is Ugandan even a language?

Dooce envy · Faithful Readers · June's stupid life Controgersy! “Controgersy.” Nice. What do I do for a living, again?

Well, that was exciting. We had some fire in the comments yesterday! Okay, it wasn't really all that dramatic. Still.

So let's keep going! What say you? I am just like Dr. Laura or something, with all my controversy.

I wonder if there is anyone on earth who bugs me more than Dr. Laura. She's just so MEAN to her callers. She's always out of patience with everyone. I think she's burned out on her job. Is what I think. No one needs to be that crabby.

Anyway, I have gathered you all here today to talk about kids. I know I said two days ago I was gonna talk about how one of my coworkers has his art in one of those Art-O-Mat machines.

One of my coworkers has his art in one of those Art-O-Mat machines. I mean, what more can I say about it? I can't tell you his name because I am trying to keep my workplace and everything about it on the downlow so I don't become Dooce. So I don't get fired and end up making $40,000 a month at home on my arse parts. That does sound awful, doesn't it?

Katie Couric. She bugs me more than Dr. Laura, I think. Just her whole gummy smile. Get some LIPS. God.

The other day I read an article about Eva Mendes, and she said if you meet women (like me) who say they get along better with men and they don't have a lot of women friends, you should run the other way. Coincidentally, you know who bugs the CRAP out of me? Eva Mendes. She always looks like she needs a shower. And some astringent. She's just so unkempt. And she thinks she's sexy when really? Hello. Please shower. A little cotton ball, a little Sea Breeze. Maybe a brush. Then we can talk.


Why is she with Levi Johnston?

And stop wearing TANK TOPS all the time. You're a girl. You're not Popeye.

Goodness I wish I'd get to the point. Kids. I was gonna talk about kids.

Do they even make Sea Breeze anymore? What about Ten-O-Six Lotion? Remember that stuff? It was basically brown alcohol.

Okay, KIDS. Honest.

I have said this before, and obviously I have said everything on earth before because look at the 8203842 paragraphs above, but you may have noticed that I am 45 and married and I have no kids.

The reason I am 45 and have no kids is because I have never wanted kids. Not once. Not for a second. There has never been one instance where I have thought, "Oh! Kids! Wish I had some!"

People seem to immediately say, "Well, you know June. She hates kids." And I DON'T! I don't know why people prefer to think that if I don't WANT my OWN kids, I think they should all be eradicated from the planet. Kids are fine. I mean, not on my plane, generally, but you know. At a barbecue. At Gymboree. When you're in line at the grocery store. Etc.

I find kids amusing most times, and some of them are very cute. But as you can see from my tepid description, here, I do not have the Jones. The urge. That primal drive to have kids. Which is what I think you should feel in order to go out and have them.

And here is what I think. I think LOTS of women feel the way I do, but they'd never dream of not having kids because it's what people expect. And it's not always easy to be childless. I mean, it's a hell of a lot easier than having a passel of kids, I'm certain of that. But there are challenges to opting for this rather unusual choice.

I have been called selfish (by a woman who had seven kids, the last two when she knew her husband was having an affair and she got pregnant on purpose to keep him at home for a while longer. Then he did leave and she was back on the prowl when I met her, going out most nights and leaving the kids with her mom) (but I was selfish).

Me as a baby

I have been asked who will take care of me when I'm older. I love that one. That's why you have kids? Anyway, for the record, my cousin Katie is 12 years younger than me, and is a nurse, and has told me she'll take care of me when the inevitable dementia and/or cancer sets in that everyone in my family gets.

I have been asked, "What do you DO with your time?" like if you don't have to schlep kids to soccer every Saturday you must be at a total loss for entertainment.

And look, sometimes it's kind of lonely. Almost all my friends popped out the, you know, progeny. So they aren't able to just hang with me at the Peanut Barrel all afternoon anymore, throwing peanut shells on the floor and listening to the juke box.

The Peanut Barrel was a bar in my college town. I wonder if it's still there? You could always get someone to go with you to get a pitcher of beer at the Peanut Barrel.

Nevertheless, I do not regret my decision at all.

Marvin as a baby

And I have some friends who were BORN to be parents. They are all up in the parent thing, making up activities, and telling me the clever thing their kid did. But some people? Seem like they did it because they were supposed to.

So tell me the truth. Did you have kids because you felt the absolute undeniable urge to do so? Or did you just do it by rote? Do you sometimes wish you hadn't? If you do not have kids, do you ever wish you had? When? And do you think I was selfish for not having kids?

And do you think your kids are Tea Partiers?

Okay, that was only funny if you read my controversial comments yesterday. Or, you know, not.

June's stupid life · My pets

Fat Dog Democrat

You know what I bet you wish? Which was a lovely, not-at-all convoluted sentence. I'll bet you wish I'd stop complaining about how much work I have to do. But as Randy on American Idol says every single time I've ever watched that show, which is like five times, check it.

I worked at my regularly scheduled job yesterday, got home at 6:15, and worked till 11:18 on the stupid, stupid, redunkulous freelance stuff I am still trying to get out of here from back when I was a freelancer.

I got up at 6:50 and stampeded back to my work, which I just finished and got on the computer to write this blog. In my email? The sex book lady has MORE PAGES FOR ME. HOW MUCH SEX IS THERE TO TALK ABOUT?

At any rate, by the end of August I should be caught up, so I will just be in this living hell of working like one of Thomas Edison's employees for another month.

Did you know Thomas Edison was a crappy employer? Made his people stay for days at work and so on. I know where they all wanted to put that light bulb.

This does not mean that I have forgotten about how I was gonna tell you that Tallulah got a little, you know, chubby. Got a little badonk-a-donk in her withers. Got a little secretary spread in her hind parts.

And you know I kind of noticed? I mean, she's part Pit Bull, right? So she has this big barrel chest which makes it easier to digest toddlers or something, and then she always had this dramatic swoop at the back where her tiny feminine waist was.

I just tried to look for a good example of when she was slim, and instead I found this nice shot of the intimate bond that is my cats. Look how connected they are. Could they be acting more like they've never met each other?

Anyway. Trust me. Girlfriend had a dramatic waist. She was the Scarlet O'Hara of dogs.

But then from November till this month, I have been home with her, which means she wasn't playing 10 hours a day at dog day care, and also too she was catching in her cute snout a scrap from everything I ate. And we all know what a health nut I am. Pop Tarts? Talu was getting a scrap. Fry? Catching it in midair.

I enjoy watching her catch her food when I throw it, and also it's cute when she chews. So it's all my fault.

And she literally ran around the entire.time. she was at day care. The owner there told me that other dogs go on the beds provided and hang out, but that Tallulah is the life of the party, constantly running eagerly from one dog to the next–as long as they're not, you know, small. You know how she gets about the small dog.

I am sorry. I did not raise her to be this way. Have you met my free-to-be-you-and-me childhood? Of course I didn't raise her that way. We are all equal equal equal. That's how I was raised. Everyone is wonderful, except for Republicans.

Well, I'm sorry mom, that WAS how I was raised. I had to work hard to embrace the Republican. And look at me now, embracing Faithful Reader and unbelievably conservative Hulk. Well. Not literally. 

Maybe little dogs are all Republican and Tallulah is catching some vibe from her grandma.

Have we already discussed this? Which dogs would be Democrats and which would be Republican? I think we did. I see Golden retrievers as Republican. I see mutts as Democrats.

Pit Bulls? Libertarians.

What say you?

Anyway. I was supposed to tell you other things and clearly I am never gonna get to them because I have to go to work. The POINT is, she looked a little junky in her trunky and sure enough, we took her for her shots this weekend and Talu has gained SIX POUNDS. She is only 20 inches tall, so, you know, six pounds isn't pretty.

And does anyone remember when Talu was thin, and I was so smug, and I lectured my mother about her fat dogs? Her giant Beagle (Republican) and her blue Healer (Independent)? Okay, but they are really fat. My vet said Talu was still acceptable, but last time she was ideal.

Ideal. Did you hear that? My dog was Megan Fox. Scarlet O'Hara and Megan Fox. My dog is a total self-centered bitch. Who marries David Silver, apparently.

So she has to eat two small meals now, in the morning and at night. And yesterday she went back to day care, and I cannot tell you how excited she was to get back there and roll on the floor and pee down her own leg in the lobby and so forth.

I'm talking about Megan Fox now. I have no idea what I'ma do with Tallulah.

Beauty products · Faithful Readers · June's stupid life · Marvin

Comic Sans

First of all, yay.


Okay, so see how I put this little square up here like I know what I'm doing? And you can all say, "Oh, how nice! Our votes mattered! June is a finalist in that Most Ludicrous Blog contest!"

What you don't know is the part where I sat here trying to download that stupid square 800 thousand five hundred ninety-two times. And every time I'd try to put this on here, my stupid computer would make that "you effed up" noise at me — "wooo!" — and then it'd say, "This file is a mime" or something.

It didn't technically say it was a mime, but it said something with the word "mime" in it. Something about my mime was unsupported. So somewhere out there, thanks to me, some mime is going hungry. He's in some park pretending it's windy and also rubbing his stomach. While trying to get out of a box.

Is there anyone who likes mimes? Anyone?

How did I go from being a finalist to talking about Sheilds and Yarnell?


Why must mimes hold their eyes open like that? This is why I hate everything having to do with the theater.

So what happens next is some secret group out there, like the Academy or the Eastern Stars or the KKK or whatever, are over there reading my blog deciding whether it's funny. And I'm sure the part where I just called them the KKK won me a TON of votes.

Maybe everyone in the secret society is a mime. And they are reading this with really big eyes.

The point is, they will announce if I have won in New York on I think August 5, or maybe it's August 4, at this blog convention that I cannot attend because I have a job and so forth. So I probably won't win because I can't go. Because I am working class. See how things go? The man. Keeping me down. The mime. Not voting for me.

However, I cannot thank you all enough for all the votes. I heart you. And I am in competition with sincerely funny people! So I feel kind of fancy, mingling with the likes of The Bloggess and CakeWrecks and so forth. Did I already say "and so forth" today? Oh, yes, there it is. In the paragraph above. My writing sucks. Hello, voting committee.

In other news, Marvin is currently watching a documentary on Helvetica. No, really. I am not making this up. And no, there is not a band you have never heard of called "Helvetica," although "Hellvetica" would be kind of a good band name. He is watching a documentary on the actual font. I think we can all agree Marvin has reached a new low in his documentary viewing.

I don't know why he's my type.

Get it?

I am sans humor re the sans serif.

I am a font of funnyness.

Marvin is a prints among men.

Okay, I'll stop.

I must have liked him because he had a lot of good lines.

(That wasn't even remotely a good one, was it?)

If I ever leave him, I am totally going for a new Roman next time.


On that note, I will leave you. Tune in tomorrow because (a) why wouldn't you, with the highlarious font humor you can get over here, and (2), I have to tell you about how Tallulah got kind of chubby and (6a)[14.5](v) one of my coworkers has his art in one of those Art-O-Mat machines of which I am so enamored.


No word on whether he's a new Roman, but yes, I AM sucking up to him so he'll give me some free art. Have you met me?

So you'll have to come back to hear about all that. This is like one of those dramatic serials they used to have at the movies, or like a documentary on Helvetica, isn't it? How will you sleep waiting for tomorrow?

Until then, be bold.

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


I have to work before work this morning, because something that should have taken me 10 minutes on this this computer took two hours last night. Lucy, the first human ever discovered, called. Wants her RAMs back.

Because I cannot post at you today, I leave you with this YouTube video Marvin showed me yesterday. Remember how I worried I'd get all mature now that I'm old? Yeah.


June's stupid life · Marvin · Proofreading/Copy editing

If you don’t want me to kill flies with Steely Dan, don’t leave Steely Dan out

Today Marvin and I have been married 12 ridiculous years, which is beside the point because I have a lot to do today.

That book about the nature of light that I have been working on? It's due very soon. Then right behind that is another book due for that same company.

Also, I have been working on a sex book (yes) for somebody else and she has been incredibly patient, but the last time I gave her any new pages was before Marvin's parents were here. She just emailed me to tell me she has MORE pages for me, and who is tired of reading about sex? Is it me?

And of course, both of these clients are getting dumped and they know it, as soon as these jobs are done. I told them I have a full-time job, but I had committed to doing this work already before I got the job.

However, I am keeping the statistics textbook company because they treat me like gold and we have been together since 2002, and guess what? GUESS WHAT? They emailed me Friday that they are FEDEXing me something that's due Tuesday. Oh, and I have to work late at my real job tomorrow.

And did I mention I leave for Colorado later this week?

The good news is, Marvin got me this:


I don't know how he guessed I wanted this, seeing as I emailed him the link from Sundance Catalog along with a note of plea, then reminded him of it a few days later. What a surprise! You could have knocked me over with a feather! But isn't it pretty? It reminds me of the ocean.

So I worked a lot yesterday and got up early and worked this morning, but I don't know if it's all the work or those experimental drugs I'm taking for my migraine, but long about noon I got so dang logy. I was outside on the deck, editing, and the breeze was blowing and I could have fallen right over and gone to sleep.

So I stomped in here and said to Marvin, "I'm going to rest my eyes for a minute."

I went to the bed and flopped down. Tallulah came with me, because she always comes with me everywhere I go. Apparently someone told her it was necessary to follow my every move, or else she has an unhealthy obsession with me, I don't know. At any rate, she galumphed onto the bed and put her chin on my legs.

"What are you doing?" asked Marvin, coming into the room.

Marvin always does this. I tell him what I'm doing and then he comes in and asks me what I'm doing. And the part where I am face-down on the bed with my eyes closed, breathing rhythmically, you'd think might have tipped him off.

"I'm conducting an orchestra," I groused. "What does it LOOK like I'm doing?"

"You taking a nap?" He leaped onto the bed. "HELLO TALU!" he said in a squeaky voice. "Who's my girl!? Who's my sleepy girl!"

Tallulah sighed and rolled her eyes at me. When Marvin speaks to the dog or the cats, his voice goes up 70 octaves.

"Tallulah likes you better," he said.

"Honey, I'm really trying to take a nap. I am exhausted and I have to get up and work again."

"Okay," Marvin said.

When he left, Talu and I readjusted and got ready to drift off. "Zzzzt!" we heard. "Zzzzzzz zzzzzzzz zzzZZZZZZzzzzzt!"

There was a stupid stupid stupid stupid fly in the room. And it kept BUZZING next to my ear. You don't even want to know what swear words I came up with as I swatted at it.

"What are you DOING?" Marvin asked, entering the room.

"Why does everyone in this house concern themselves with my every move!" I yelled, swatting.

"You aren't killing a fly with Steely Dan!" Marvin said. I had his paperback book in my hand.

"If you don't want me to kill flies with Steely Dan, don't leave Steely Dan out," I said sensibly, smashing said fly to bits. God, there's nothing better than murdering a fly that's been bugging you.

No sooner did I flop back down on the bed when into the room. What was this, the Amityville Horror? I grabbed Steely and his Dan again.

"What are you DOING?"

Honest to God. He asked me again. "Well, stop making huge NOISES if you don't want me to wonder what you're doing," he said.

This time I was so mad that I managed to murder the fly in seconds. Tallulah, nervous about me swishing a book everywhere and cursing, cowered out of the room.

I got back in bed just as Marvin came back into the room.

"You ready to get jiggy wid it?" he asked.

What he's got is some TIMING.

"I'm ready to get KNIFEY with it, is what I'm ready for," I said, wishing I had a Marvin-sized Steely Dan paperback. "I have an idea," I said. "Let's pretend it's our wedding day and not see each other till six o'clock."

"Geez. What a crabapple."

So that's been our romantic anniversary thus far. Maybe Marvin could go read my sex book or something.

I'll see you after the chicken dance, Marv.

Friends · June's stupid life · Photo essays

Am I still 45?

What if now that I'm 45 I'll be all mature and deep and stuff?

What did Mr. Spock find in the toilet? The Captain's log.

See. Still funny to me. I guess I have not matured yet.

So my birthday was excellent. Did you know that every year I take a picture of myself on my birthday, because I could not possibly be more self-involved, and I have a photo album dedicated to just me-on-my-birthday pictures? I went back to old blog posts from birthdays past and cannot find incidences of me in old birthdays, but I know I have showed you those pictures before. Irks me. Anyway, I took yesterday's birthday photo.

I thought it'd be nice to include some of my family members, but as you can see, Tallulah told me to tell it to the hiney. Plus also, hello jugulars. Am I a milkmaid? What's with those breasticulars?

Also, that bowl on the porch might be from a cat I might be feeding in the neighborhood, who might look just like Henry only beefy and big. One night he was staring at me through our window, and I thought, Why is Henry looking at me through the window? Why is Henry really big? And finally I figured it out. Said doppelganger cat is really friendly and the other night he tried to walk right into our house, only to see Tallulah in there, who was in the middle of eating Marvin's Rice Krispy Treat wrapper.

They both froze in place–the cat in the doorway, Talu with the wrapper hanging out her mouth. It was not her intimidatingest moment. Nevertheless, the orange Henry doppleganger left in a hurry. I think he belongs somewhere because he's huge, but just in case…


I tried for another shot of Lu and me, and welcome to the roof of my dog's mouth. Checking for stalactites!


I am using this one, despite the 87 eye wrinkles. Girlfriend is 45. Who are we kidding? Of course I have 87 eye wrinkles.


In other birthday news, Marvin brought me breakfast in bed and sent me flowers at work. He is a nice boy.


My cousin Katie made me this sunny apron with her very own hands. I have no idea why the stupid picture has stripes in it. Maybe it's Fruit Stripe film.

My Pal From MA, who is a faithful reader and also my oldest pal, sent me this nicely wrapped gift and I photographed the niceness, but see, I am so blind that this looked IN FOCUS when I looked in the little square on my camera. Then when I put it on the computer, hello. Have I mentioned I'm 45?


Inside the nicely wrapped package were these cute pig soaps. And I am totally being my grandmother now, because I put them in my etigerre/shelf/egg salad thingie in the bathroom, thinking, These are too nice to use. Get me my Emeraude, I'm going to my Eastern Star meeting now.

I passed one of those terrible trucks the other day, where they are carrying live animals to go to some slaughterhouse, and this truck had BABY PIGS on it. BABY PIGS. Why? What were they doing with baby pigs? And when I looked in at them? One of them squealed at me. It was everything I could do to not jacknife that truck and somehow unlatch that thing and let them all free. Onto the highway. That would have been a sensible solution.


From my stepsister, I got this notepad with a sparkly Eiffel Tower on it. Everyone knows that with me, if you give me something Eiffel Tower-y, you cannot go wrong. If it sparkles? Even better.


She also found me this cool old container at an antique shop. Also in the etigerre/bathroom shelf/egg salad thingie.

Every gift my friend Paula gives me elicits this reaction, where you are forced to look at my tonsils. LOOK AT THIS BRACELET! Love.It. Love. lovelovelovelove.

I got many other gifts, but this was all I photographed. Also, I forgot to listen for the click. AGAIN. 45th year in a row. Or almost. When I was just a little kid, my grandmother told me that if I was really quiet, at the exact minute I was born on my birthday, you can hear the number click over in your head. In retrospect, she probably just wanted me to shut.the.eff.up because I was probably being screechy on my birthday, but do you know I have had EVERY INTENTION of listening for the click every year, and EVERY YEAR I forget? This year at work I even said, "In eight minutes it's time for me to listen for the click" and then I forgot. Because they had a cocktail party yesterday afternoon. At work. I am not making that up.

I had a pomegranate juice mixed with Sprite, which let me tell you is delicious, if you are looking for something tasty and pink and you don't want to get drunk. And you want to forget your click. Dammit.

Well, maybe next year. Oh, and thanks for your bday wishes! Oh! And comment of the week goes to Tracey for her Jack-and-Diane-related birthday wish yesterday, and special shout to Kerrin for her memory of every second of my blog. Killing me. Not as much as the Captain's Log, but still.

Faithful Readers · June's stupid life



Let me tell you something. If you are not yet 45, prepare to not FEEL 45 when you get there. I think of myself as maybe 27. Without the whole Janice Joplin/Kurt Cobain/Jimi Hendrix burning out before I fade away thing.

The above picture is from 1999, when I turned 34. My LA workplace did like to fuss. And I might have mentioned it was my bday oh, a time or two in advance.

I am sorry to tell you that was the night JFK Jr. died, July 16, 1999. I am full of the happy news, aren't I? I remember waking up hung over the day after my birthday and Marvin said, "John-John is missing."

Marvin loves giving me the bad news. And saying things like "John-John." He also woke me to tell me about Princess Diana, who thankfully he did not call "Diana-Diana," and he stormed into the bathroom while I was putting Jergen's on my legs to tell me about the World Trade Center. Who is he, the town crier? The town repeater of first names?


It being the stupendously ridiculous anniversary of my birth, I wanted to tell you that the best gift in the world is having all of you as my friends. Even if you have never left me one word of comment, just seeing you as a reader on my sitemeter or on Google Reader is exciting. It's like, someone is reading all the crap I write about my dumb life! Who knew?

There's this guy at work I like, and he said yesterday, "I'm so glad someone else has my sense of humor finally. It makes everything less lonely." That is how I feel about all of you reading my blatherings.

So thank you all very much. Y'all are better than a puppy. You know. Almost.

June's stupid life · Photo essays

It’s 1970 and 1990 and 1979 and also now

It’s my birthday eve! I am not calling you “Eve,” I am saying it is the day before my birthday.


I have already started getting cards.


And I’ve been getting presents for a month. My mother, father, aunt, pal Dottie and in-laws have already sent my gift. Don’t let me forget to model for you the nice Miley Cyrus pants my friend Dottie got me. Because could Dottie get a bigger kick out of her own self? These gifts up here are from my friend Paula, my cousin Katie and my stepsister. I’ll open them on my real bday.

What can I tell you? I get a lot of attention on my birthday.

By the way, when Dot and I lived together in college, once I got a piece of junk mail addressed to “Djune Gardens.” They inexplicably stuck a “D” at the front of my name. How they made this mistake I’ll never know, but Dottie not only kept the piece of junk mail, she taped it to her door. Years later she sent me a personalized Christmas tree ornament that reads “Djune,” and whenever she mails me something it is to “Djune.” This year my gift was to “Djune Dgardens.”

Again, who is her own house of amusement? Is it Dot?

Anyway, my mother-in-law got me a few birfday things while she was here, but she also sent me $100 yesterday. So after a hard day of work, and working at noon on freelance stuff, and then ending up working about an hour late, do you know what I did?

I took that 100 bucks and went to Old Navy. Because nothing slows me down when I got a Finn in my wallet. Neither Marvin nor I know if “a Finn” is really a hundred bucks, but we are too lazy to look it up.

So here’s what I got. It took me 15 minutes to buy these things. I was a purchasing dervish. There’s a term you hear all the time. A purchasing dervish.

Exhibit une. I got me some leopard shoes. Made from real leopards! Okay, not at all, unless leopards are suddenly man-made. Do you like my French, by the way? “une.” I’m Frenchin’ out. Oh, and careful (obsessed) readers will note I have leopard flats already, but they are suede, and not appropriate for summer. See. Is the thing.

Exhibit douche. Okay, “douche” really IS a French word. Just not the word for “two.” Whatev. Here are some skinny brown pants with zippers on the side, because apparently it is 1985 again.

Or, alternatively, it is 1979 again, because t-shirts with butterfly arms are back. I do not mean the arms are made of butterflies. PETA called. Wants my shoes and top.

I like how I can’t possibly be bothered to take the mail off the table before I style these pictures. My father, who is undoubtedly lying down instead of sitting, is rolling in despair. And ordering that DNA test he’s always considered.

Here is a detail of the sleeve, and you know what’s easy to capture on film? Black fabric.

I forgot to be French. Above is exhibit quiche.

Who is delighted maxi skirts are back? So along with it being 1979 and 1985, it is also 1990 and 1970. Hello, garbled fashion years! I look forward to the day they just pick a style for the ’10s. In the meantime, maxi skirts! Just call me maxi! Does anyone remember Maxi perfume? It was not perfume for your maxi pad. So don’t even go there, Hulk.

Marvin just came in and said a “Finn” is five dollars. And if I got all these clothes for five dollars, it must be 1792. Also, I really need a pedicure. BAH!

Okay, this looks like an unsexy Mr.-Rogers-in-drag pink cardigan, but really it has a sweet ruffle at the collar, which makes me sound like I am Shirley Partridge, but honest engine, it’s adorable in real life.

Oh. Sorry. Exhibit Peppy LePew.

In case you were being nosy, yes, I am a medium. I knew you were gonna look. Cause I’m a medium. Get it? Oh, with the psychic humor. “Call me now!”

Exhibit Marcel Marceau. A sexy tank. Not like a tank to run over people. And this is a large, due to my ENORMOUS hoots.

And there it is. My new wardrobe, thanks to my in-laws and the part where I got born and the wonderful folks at Old Navy.

Oh, and thanks for all your suggestions for what I can photograph this weekend. Everyone was brilliant! I have no idea which one I’ma pick. But I know you wish I’d keep saying “I’ma.”

It’s French.



Family · June's stupid life

Piece of mind


Let's discuss my childhood.

This was at my GRANDPARENTS' house, with the peace sign pumpkin. For goodness sake. I think it would have been hy-LAR-ious had I turned out super conservative. And, like, a colonel in the Army or something. Does the Army have colonels?

Despite my lack of Army-ness, I DO have a fondness for the Colonel. Of KFC fame, I mean.

And why couldn't my hair have stayed like that? I don't mean under a veil, but straight and blonde and all-American looking. LOOK at it! It's cheerleader hair! I was six! Too young to use it to my advantage. It'll probably get all nice again when I hit 80.

I was looking once again for a childhood picture of myself for work. Can you tell? They asked me to bring one in for the wall in the lobby I told you about, the one with everyone's kid picture on it. I guess since it's week three they feel sufficiently assured I am really gonna work there.

They brought in gelato today. This guy came in with a cart, and four flavors. Hell yeah, I'm staying there.

Anyway, I am not using this one. I'm bringing in the pool table one I showed you a few weeks ago. You guys said I should use it, and I believe you were correct.


Obviously, they are going to be cropping dad out the picture. Sorry, dad. Unless you want a job there. I know how you'd like to stampede right back into the working world.

My father is not one of those "I have to stay busy or I'm not happy" types. Retirement suits him fine. "Why stand when you can sit," he always says. He also says, "Why sit when you can lie down."

Anyway, I look happy in this shot, and I like my necklace and my asymmetric bangs. Mom, did you EVER cut them straight? Ever? Did we live in a FUN HOUSE? Were the floors slanted? Were you high on the gange? I understand it was the '60s. But yeesh. Vidal Sassoon you were not.

And mostly what I like in this shot are my feetses. In the tights. I remember having to wear tights and always having to pull them up, and not caring who saw me tug at them in a huge stomping sumo wrestler motion. I am kind of the same way now. Frankly.

So that's all I have to tell you about that. Oh! But I had a good idea! You know how I love that photography blog, The Blue Hour. Oh, I think his photos are good. And it's his HOBBY! It's not even what he does for a living. Which is probably how you feel about my fine photos.

At any rate, he did a series of pictures recently called Green, which were all (are you sitting down?) green-themed. I thought you all could write in with ideas for me to take pictures this weekend of a theme, like, you know, purple. Or happiness. Or feetses. Or peace-sign pumpkins.

Whatever. Just don't make me photograph snakes or vomit and we will be all set. I will pick whatever idea strikes my fancy, or maybe I will do a whole bunch of them. My only caveat is I PLAN to take said photos this weekend, but it's my birthday and anniversary, and if I am taking care of my new PUPPY, or Marvin whisks me off to BRAZIL, I will not be able to. But I think I will be puppyless and Brazilless. We won't even see the MOVIE Brazil. Is my theory. Or even GET a Brazilian.

Okay, so let me know what theme you'd like me to photograph. With my fine photography skills.

Peace out. Peace out or a piece out, as my cousin Brigid likes to say. She did not grow up with peace-sign pumpkins.

I am berserk · June's stupid life

June is stoned and philosophical. Or you know, not.

I am high as a kite. I am on day two of the experimental migraine drug I am taking from the headache clinic. I was convinced I got the placebo, and after I took it Sunday night and felt no side effects yesterday, I was all, yep. Placebo.

Marvin says when kids are "sick" all the time and parents are forever dragging their malingering kids into the doctor, that doctors prescribe Obecalp and it works wonders. "Oh, yes, helicopter parent and your dramatic child. This Obecalp will do it!" Marvin said I was totally getting the Obecalp from the headache clinic.

In case you haven't figured it out, "Obecalp" is "placebo" spelled backwards.

Anyway, this morning I woke up and Lucy was in the sky with diamonds and the dog had lips and the red queen was talking backward and for a few minutes I couldn't figure out why I felt so dang funny in the head. Then I remembered I am taking this dang-dang drug.

You know what I should be good at today? My job.

Speaking of helicopter parents, which we weren't and what I'm about to tell you isn't really about a helicopter parent because the person did not have propellers out her head and did I ever tell you I rode in a helicopter once?

It was at a local fair, which I'm sure was safe, and I was four. They were giving helicopter rides which did I mention I'm sure was safe? As I was getting on, some relative shouted, "COVER YOUR EYES!" which probably meant cover them on the way INTO the helicopter because dust and such will be blowing around.

The thing is, I always did what I was told (I was a real jerk when I was a kid), so I rode the entire ride with my eyes covered. Which is a metaphor for my entire life.

What was I talking about? Oh, the parent.

Yesterday I went out to lunch near work and took one of the 94 books I am freelance proofreading with me so I could work on it, which is a refreshing way to take a break from a day of copy editing. Inexplicably, there was a woman, clearly in the middle of her workday given that she was downtown and professionally dressed, with a tiny child. Like, older than a toddler but younger than school-age.

She burst into the restaurant, this woman, looking at all of us like, "Look! I have a tiny child with me!" I swear she looked at each one of us for our reaction. A few people said things to her like, you know, "Aw" or "How old is she?" Then when I went outside to a bench to eat my egg salad and work, there they were again, and she was PARADING the child up and down the food area so everyone could see she had a child again.

I mean, had she just stolen it? What was her story? And she kept SPEAKING to this child at the top of her lungs so we'd all notice and again think, How cute.

Finally I decided to stop being such a bitch and I smiled at her and said child. I mean, who does it hurt to give her a little attention?

Then I started thinking about how nothing irks me more than people who are clearly in need of attention, which is why I can't stand theater people, and if you remotely know me you are now thinking of the times I have (a) hung a spoon off my nose in public (b) stuck fruit down my shirt in public to do a Pamela Anderson impression (c) hung peppers off my teeth like fangs (d) and so forth.

I think we often can't stand the people who remind us most of ourselves. Do you think that's true? What kind of person irks you the most? Is it the attention seeker? The whiner? The go-getter? I kind of hate the go-getter and I am so not one. I also cannot stand the no-nonsense athletic type with no sense of humor who wears no makeup, which again, hi. Not me. Like, Billie Jean King and I would probably not be friends. Which is a shame because it comes up a lot.

So maybe my theory is completely redunkulous. Did I mention I am loopy on the meds? Why is Tallulah speaking Portuguese?

P.S. A few of you wrote in to ask what color toenail polish I was wearing in yesterday's post. It was some OPI color I picked at the pedicure place. I'm down with OPI. You know how OPI names their nail colors ridiculous things that have nothing to do with the color. So it was either "Your Cousin's an Idiot" or "Get that Thing Out the Basement."

Dooce envy · June's stupid life · Photo essays

’80s shoes

I cannot believe how many people participated in a conversation about ranch dressing yesterday. It just goes to show you you have NO IDEA what will make people comment.

Take, for example, my new shoes, a riveting topic. Today I will probably get zero comments. Nevertheless, I am showing them to you.

Now, I hope you are sitting down. Because those of you who have read this blog for awhile? Are going to be stunned when you hear what kind of shoes I got. Yes. Yes, I did. I got more silver metallic shoes. Yes, I am C3Po.

Although wasn't C3Po gold? Okay, yes, I am Jiffy Pop.

And speaking of '70s icons, apparently the '80s are back, so get your curling iron and your frosty Wet 'n Wild lipstick, because I purchased Dr. Scholl's and Sperry Top Siders. I am not making this up.


When I was in high school, everybody HAD to have ridiculous Sperry Top Sider boat shoes, which really are not that pretty. But we wore them, with NO SOCKS, in Michigan, when it snowed 80 feet and it was 900 below.

However, these are flip-flops. For my new job. How many people say that, really? Who aren't lifeguards?


Aren't they preppy? Plus I figured pink would go with my entire wardrobe. And life.


For my more glamorous days, I got the silver metallic Dr. Scholl's. They were marked down from $70 (SEVENTY DOLLARS!) to $14. Apparently I am the only person who wanted silver metallic Dr. Scholl's.


I thought it'd make a more interesting picture to pose on Tallulah, but as you can see, she was having none of it. Won't you enjoy her buttockal arena? Chuck from Dooce she is not. This is why I don't make $40,000 a month, Tallulah.


Then I thought I'd stick poor Winston's foot in the shoe, and this was the only blurred image from that fiasco. I don't know why no one wants to help a sister out.

So that was it on my new shoes. I don't know which ones I am wearing today. It's an exciting mystery. I live on the edge.

Do you want to go back to talking about ranch dressing?