June's stupid life · Pieces of Wisdom

Pieces of Wizzzdom. I scream, you scream…

Before I begin this week's incredibly important Pieces of Wisdom question, let me remind you that we are doing Christmas good deeds, or should I say HOLIDAY good deeds–sorry–and if you wish to sign up, you may do so on my Sunday post. Which means, yes, you have to scroll all the way down TWO WHOLE POSTS. God, how do you do it all?

Also, it is only in that Sunday post that I am asking you not to leave multiple comments, MOM, so that I can pair you up with your good-deed partner without wading through 17 extraneous comments before the next person says "I'm in!" MOM.

You have until December 1 to sign up. After that, you cannot sign up and you have to spend all of December being a dick.

So that's that.

But here we are on Tuesday, November 30, thank all that is holy and merciful, because did I mention it's payday? And did I mention Marvin and I have had separate checking accounts since September because I was sick and tired of him saying we didn't have any money, and I didn't understand how all our money could just, you know, DISAPPEAR every month so I said FORGET IT, we are splitting the bills and I get my own account!

Who has had $5 left and maybe sometimes $-14 left each month? And who always has $1,500 left over? Who is a miser who clings to every penny like Silas Marner? Wait. Did Silas Marner cling to every penny? Am I thinking of Simon Legree? Crap.

It is so UNFAIR. And he is such a JERK when he has to loan me, you know, $10 so I can go to the movies the weekend before payday. Because maybe I might make quite a bit more money than Marvin. And maybe he LORDS it over me every time I am out of money.

You know what I think? I think he is STEALING from my account. Buying eye shadow at Ulta just to trip me up.

Shockingly, this has nothing to do with today's pieces of wisdom topic and I have no idea how I got off on this tangent.

My cousin Katie, who is good with her money and often buys things and returns them out of guilt, had a dream recently that she went to Baskin-Robbins and they had named an ice cream flavor after her.

The Katie [insert Katie's middle and last name] Red Raspberry Sorbet.

I told her that was the most self-centered dream I had ever heard.

But really, if they were GONNA name an ice cream after her, she totally WOULD be a raspberry sorbet. It's pretty, it's kind of light and elegant, and it's kind of good for you. Her dream summarized her perfectly. Oh, sure, she still has her head up her own arse, but she did a good job of summarizing her ice cream flavor.

And that is today's Pieces of Wisdom question. If you were an ice cream flavor, what would you be? Why?

I would be strawberry. It's perfect for me. It's pink, and I think of it as a classic, but really it's just there to make the Neapolitan look interesting and no one really wants it.

Totally me.

Do you like how it took me 759 paragraphs to ask this simple question? Imagine being around me in real life. Strawberry ice cream.

"Is there any Neapolitan left?"

"There's only the strawberry. Everyone ate the good flavors."

"Crap. Siggghhh. Okay, I'll have that."


Faithful Readers · June's stupid life

Okay, we gave thanks. Hello CHRISTMAS!

I hope you all enjoyed gathering with your familieses for the Thanksgiving holiday. If you are Americans and not, you know, European communists.

I like to call this photo Family. With vodka.

We really aren't that drinky of a group. Which explains why the vodka is Popoff or however you spell it, and not, you know, Grey Goose. Look who has had maybe two vodka drinks in her life but knows from Grey Goose. Only the best for this drunk.

Also, it was nice of us to include Kenny from South Park in our festivities.

But now Thanksgiving is over and Edsel has had his debut

in which he managed to bug all the elderly dogs as much as possible. Now we are home and headed for that next great holiday, which for me is Christmas. For Marvin it is…also Christmas, because who was willing to turn his Jewish back on his religion once he got a taste of Santa?

So to speak.

And in the spirit of the giving season, I thought I'd show you all the things I want for Christmas and will not get, because I am not a trophy wife and we cannot afford any of these things. Why did it never occur to me to look for a rich man? Yiydle diydle diydle diydle diydle diydle diydle diyyy?

I never once dated anyone with money. Thanks to my hippie upbringing, I always felt attracted to musicians and poets and the clinically depressed.

Without further ado, in no particular order, are a bunch of things I ain't gettin':

A pink diamond from Tiffany's. A steal at $770,000.

Expensive reading glasses from Anthropologie. How sad am I that I WANT reading glasses? But look how cool they are!

RobeA cashmere robe. Because Edsel wants something nice to chew when he herds me down the hall. Also, I'd like this committee of headless people just hanging around, holding slippers judgmentally.

UggAnd speaking of slippers, Ugg makes a nice indoor/outdoor slipper for a mere $100 that I'd like. Guess which color.

For just $1,400, Helloooo Kitty! All of a sudden, Henry's medical bills don't seem that bad, do they, Marvin?

I also want Red Envelope's Year of Seeds, which is not a fertility treatment, rather they send you seeds to plant indoors all year. Stupid Red Envelope won't let me copy their pictures, to which I say, I am SO SURE. Whatever with you and your intellectual property or what have you.

But since we are on the topic of wants, which is what Christmas is all about, let's discuss the Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Pagan/Hey, it's December good deeds thing that we did last year and apparently y'all want to do this year, too.

Okay, here's how it goes. I pair you up with another faithful reader, which makes you accountable. You and that reader exchange good deeds before December 25. So all you have to do is write "I'm in" in the comments section of this post before December 1 at midnight my time (Eastern standard), and then I can match you all up.

The good deed can be anything, from opening the door for someone whose arms are full of packages to visiting a lonely person in an assisted living facility to volunteering at a soup kitchen to putting quarters in all the meters on one street to whatever.

It does not have to cost, it does not have to be big. It just has to be selfless.

You can wait till the moment presents itself or plan something. Just report your good deed here on any of my posts, and sometime around December 25 I will post all your good deeds. (It's up to you to find your paired person in the comments and see what they did for you.)

This was a big hit last year and it was a giant pain in my arse to set up. But I was glad to do it. To make things a little easier on me, try not to post multiple times today and if you are in, start your comment with "I'm in" and then go on to say whatever ludicrous thing you wanted to say, such as "Hey, June, I'd like to buy you that pink diamond!"

Is anyone gonna say that? Anyone…?

Oh, and Maggie is comment of the week. Because her gramma will always get up to kiss Dick.

June's stupid life

Another June Flashback: Dear Lovey Heart…

Here is a post I wrote in November of 2008. The next day I wrote from my high school diary. In all I am lovely and not at all self-centered.

I have kept a diary since fifth grade, when my Grammy got me a Holly Hobby-esque one for Christmas. She also got me a pen with Chanel No. 5-scented ink that same year, and if anyone is wondering what I would like for Christmas, I would still totally enjoy such a thing. I am serious. It was TOO COOL writing with Chanel No. 5 ink. I think I also got Arpege ink, but I really had never heard of Arpege, so that didn't have the same caché.

I had, however, heard of Caché.

Anyway, for weeks now I have wanted to post some excerpts from my lovely diaries, starting with this nice one from fifth grade, and right when I was gonna do it, Dooce posted from HER diary. This totally would have made me look like a copycat. I already have a dog who looks like Dooce's dog.

Things like this happen to me all the time. When Marvin and I got married, I asked my stepfather to read the poem somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond by ee cummings–and you'd think I'd be irritated by ee cummings and his lowercase thing but I am actually fine with it, which just shows you how deep and meaningful I am, which is soon to be revealed in this diary from 1976–and do you know like two weeks before my wedding, stupid Brandon and Kelly read that poem at their soon-to-be-defunct wedding on 90210?

And I am sorry if I have ruined the plot twist for you, there, on 90210, if you have yet to catch up on your 1998 television viewing.

Also, when we got Winston, I wanted to name him Chairman Mao, and I did call him that for a day, until people started saying, "Oh! Like that cat on Friends!" Okay, crap. I thought I was soooooo clever with Chairman Mao, but no. Apparently I was upstaged by Monica Gellar or someone.

So, without further ado, here are some excerpts from my fifth-grade diary. Anything is brackets is me trying to explain the unexplanability that is me in 1976. All spelling and punctuation are original:

Monday, Janauary 5: Sorry for spelling January wrong. I'm just worried about the spelling Bee. We get in line and Mr. Brandt gives us words. I got santifacation and accelerator wrong out of 67 words.

Okay, first of all, you are clearly born with your personality. I am apologizing to myself for spelling mistakes. But I also love how I continue to misspell my misspelled spelling "Bee" words. Nice learning from one's mistakes.

Friday, January 30, 1976: Tammi said to Kim I was stuck up. Also, she has been saying things making me so mad. Tammi addmitted she lied about Kurt liking me. Tammi thinks she's TERRIFIC because she's 2nd in spelling. She's a big fat lug.

And my relationships? Not really much more mature 32 years later. Also, I love the spelling bee envy.

Saturday, January 31, 1976: Bowled an 89 and a 73. A good game. Beth's mom might have to go to the hospital and guess who has to take care of Beth again? Mom promised me we wouldn't have to again. [I] put on fingernail decals. Pies.

Oooo! Foreshadowing! Pies! Oh, and Beth was my best friend. Nice empathy. And let's discuss someone's way too high of self-esteem on the bowling scores. Good game? A 73? For the record, that'd still be a good game for me today. Anyway, we did end up taking care of my poor friend Beth. My hospitality knew no bounds…

Tuesday, Febuary 3, 1976: Beth WILL not leave me alone. She's copying me again. She told everyone she was a ballerina. She just said that because I am. Also, her favorite singer was Bette Midler last week but this week it's Elton John. If Beth messes the room up and doesn't clean it up, she'll stay in here till she does. With NO food. I'm just going to say it. SIT ON IT, BETH!

Who was I, Joan Crawford? With NO food! Yeah, I'm sure my mother would have been all for that. Let's let this poor child, whose mother is in the hospital, stay in this room with no food till she cleans it up. Couldn't they have let her stay anywhere else, an orphanage, so that she'd have been treated better than my Elton-John-loving, pie-decal-nailed self? Yeesch!

Thursday, Febuary 12, 1976: Mr. Brandt moved me in the first row first seat. We're having a Valinte party at school tomorrow. I'm mad at Kim. She pushes me around and exepects me to be nice to her. Well, I'm not a Guinea Pig. She doesn't like it she can lump it!

Yeah! I'm nobody's Guinea Pig! Especially on Valinte day!

You know, I was a good student back then. Why didn't I know how to spell "February" yet?

So, that about sums up 1976. The drama, the heartache, the seating arrangements. I hope you enjoyed this trip through time, because if you did, I can take you though the '80s and '90s too!

Family · June's stupid life

Betty Ford. Sort of.

I had to dash down and tell you this. We were just having dinner and my Aunt Kathy may have been on glass of wine number two.

"You know, my whole life, I never drank," she said dramatically, swirling her glass of red around. "But lately at night I think, 'You know, what will it hurt to have a glass of wine right now?' And I worry, because that is how Betty Fart got started."

They almost had to Heimlich the mashed potato out my gullet. Betty Fart. Yes, what will it hurt to have that wine, Aunt Kathy? Certainly not your diction. That appears unaffected.


June's stupid life

A June Flashback: Windbag

Here is a post I wrote in May of 2008. Some of you have said it's your all-time favorite, but I think you're blowing smoke up my arse:

I have so many things to tell you. I was thinking about them all day at work, and even wrote a list of what I had to tell you, there was such a plethora.

And then? I had The Humiliation. At work. Oh, help.

So, as you know, if you follow my every move, I have been taking my lunch to work this week. So today I brought one of those microwavable soups. This one was chili. And was it ever good. I think it was by Campbell's. (There were new baby geese at lunch, too, not that I ate baby geese.)

A few hours after lunch, I was in my office, probably writing a list of what to blog about or some other impressive work ethic type thing.

There were ice cream sandwiches in the freezer, and I am sorry to tell you in this health blog that I got up to get me one.

Now, my boss's office is at the end of the hall, and mine is right next to hers.

There was another editor in my boss's office, and they were discussing important work things. As I entered the hall, my back to my boss's office, I am sorry to tell you…

I had gas.

I had no idea gas was coming. It was a sneak attack. And you guys, it was not a slight, feminine type of gas moment. This was an endless, stepped-on-a-duck kind of wind passing. Like blurrrrahhhhhh. Like the kind of gas my grandma used to have when she'd climb steps.

I was three feet from my boss's office. Well, then immediately thereafter I was 10 feet from it, as this gas PROPELLED me through the room.

The editor who was in there just completely stopped talking.

This did not stop me from getting the ice cream sandwich. But now I wonder, should I send a telegram to my office, telling them I can never return? Should I sneak back in over the weekend and place a tuba under the carpet, so the editor steps on it Monday and thinks THAT was the noise I made? Should I hire a hypnotist to make everyone forget Friday, including me?

Oh, dear.

Family · June's stupid life · Travel


Well, my bags are packed. I'm ready to go. Taxi's waitin' outside my door. If by "taxi" you mean my own car.

Anyway, here we go, off to my Aunt Kathy's house. Which by the way is not in Michigan, for those of you thinking I was going to Michigan. Such as Hulk. Hulk was out getting a bikini wax thinking he was gonna see Marvin and me this weekend, but he is not.

We have to stay overnight at a hotel on the way to our destination, and yesterday Marvin said, "I got us a hotel in a town called Charleston–"

As soon as he said that, I started doing the Charleston.


"–they take dogs for an extra $25 a night. Edsel doesn't weigh more than 35 pounds yet, does he?"

"Why aren't you saying anything about my Charleston?" I breathed.

"I had no idea what you were doing. I was hoping it would just stop," said Marvin. Who is no fun. And who might as well have lived in the depressing '10s or some other dull decade.

Anyway. My Aunt Sue will be there, at Aunt Kathy's house, so I can blame her for anything that goes wrong. Also in attendance will be her grandson Devon, as well as my Uncle Bill who you may recall needed a job but has FOUND ONE, yay, and he is all fancy in his gainful employment.

Plus also my mother and stepfather will be there. My stepfather just had to call in my migraine prescription in for me because my regular doctor flaked on me.

Also also plus also will be my stepsister and her husband, who happens to be Marvin's best friend. Once many many Thanksgivings ago we had my stepsister come to LA, and she met Marvin's best friend right there at the dinner table and the rest is history. And my mother and I were not obvious and obnoxious about fixing them up or anything, once we saw a spark between them. No, sir.

My point is, there will be many family members there. And for that I am grateful. I am also grateful that I will be introducing them all to Edsel, because what could be better than that?

I am also too grateful for all my readers, faithful and not-so-faithful, and for my commentors who leave me a-chucklin'. I have no idea why I just became Ma Kettle.

I am grateful for my little family, even though most of them are made of fur. I am even grateful for Francis. Who is made of fur and hate. (He would not want me to tell you this, but on Sunday I had work on my lap, and he came and sat on me for an hour, purring and pawing and drooling and being essentially a lovey kitty. If this gets out past you and me we will all be shot.)

I do not know if I will be able to blog from Aunt Kathy's or not, but I have set up some old Junes that I think are funny. And no, I did not rerun the "Tallulah ran away" one again. Lest you kill me dead.

What are all y'all grateful for this year?

Have a fabulous Thanksgiving, everyone, unless you live somewhere not American, in which case have a great, you know, Thursday. Hey, should we do good deed exchange again this year for the holidays? Let me know.


I am berserk · June's stupid life

In which we skip Pieces of Wisdom because it’s a holiday week

If you were thinking I had an answer about my mammogram you are MISTAKEN. I have to wait wait wait while vultures hang on the trees around me and a strange man with a hood and sickle hangs in my living room and the raven cries, "Lenore!" Plus, who tied all the pink ribbons on the old oak tree?

What I like about myself is my lack of drama. And how I don't take an ordinary thing like a mammogram and turn it into the MOST DRAMATIC MOMENT OF ALL TIME.

Or anything.

Do you hear Taps?

In other news, I am already stressed out about the holiday season. Yesterday it occurred to me that we are going out of town for Thanksgiving, a fact I have known for six weeks at least, but just yesterday I decided to, oh, plan for it. You know how I am.

Oh, shut UP. I had to WORK this weekend, in case you didn't know, and also too I had to obsess about my mammogram. Did I mention I had a mammogram yesterday? So that took all my time till now.

So I called Tallulah's day care and asked if she could board there while we go out of town this week. Oh, did they hoot and laugh and carry on. What a bunch of jerks. You know, Tallulah is on the home page of their website. You'd think they'd make special accommodations for their star dog.

I called her vet next, as they also board. "We only have room for small dogs left," they told me. I started wondering what kind of weight-loss program I could put Tallulah on. Maybe I could throw her in the dryer. Shrink her a tad.

"Is 45 pounds, you know, small?" I asked. Whatever Zigzag papers they were rolling at day care they must have also been passing the dutchie with at the vet, since they seemed similarly mirthful.

Finally I got Tallulah in to Bed & Biscuit Boarding. I am not making that name up. The woman who runs it kept calling Tallulah my "baby." "We take your baby out for play time in the morning and at night, and your baby gets treats at noon." I am so tempted to bring an actual human baby to Bed & Biscuit. Does anyone have one I can borry? And I did say "borry" on purpose.

Edsel is coming with us on our trip because he is too little for his spadeding or neutralizing or whatever so he cannot board anywhere. I think he'll be fine. My aunt has two ancient dogs who I'm sure Edsel won't annoy in the slightest.

I had a TON of work to do, so I got home late last night, then had to immediately back out of the driveway as soon as I got in because I realized my winter coat needs dry cleaning and I have to have it for our trip, so I had to go screaming to the overnight dry cleaning drop box.

Then I had to stampede back home and leave a message on my vet's answering machine, telling them to fax Talu's I-have-all-my-shots info to Bed & Biscuit, and I'm sorry, every time I say Bed & Biscuit I die.

Also too, I am supposed to be bringing the pies to Thanksgiving, and I know you can imagine how I have been rolling the dough and slicing the pumpkin or whatever you do when you make a pie.

Guess who just thought about the part where she needs to get pie? Was it me? Was it yesterday?

We have a hoity-toity grocery store here called Harris Teeter, and I am sorry to tell you that my friend The Other June's boyfriend taught Marvin to call it Hairy Peeter, which Marvin continues to think is hilarious even though he is supposed to be an adult.

Anyway, they have a bakery there and I called them.

"Hairy Peeter bakery! We are expensive!"

"Hi. Are you taking orders for pies?"

"Honey, we just baked a bunch today. I'd come get them now because they won't last long. I don't know if we'll bake more before THANKSgiving or not."

That's how people say it here. THANKSgiving. Where I come from we say ThanksGIVING, and "thanks" is pronounced "thaaaaaaaaaanks" because it's the Midwest and you have to stretch out your As for 600 weeks.

So I got BACK in the effing car and screeched over there, and do you know there were 9 million people at the pie section?

There was a very respectable-looking old person there with a Nancy Regan suit and a giant multicolor cross on. I figured she was someone's grandmother, so I asked her, "Is this pie any good?"

"Oh, yes!" Cross Grandma said. "It's what I get every year! I'm gettin' me two of 'em!" Then she took the LAST SWEET POTATO PIES LEFT and made tracks, that old crow.

So I got the LAST apple pie, and a pumpkin and a pecan. The old rugged cross Nancy Regan Grandma told me to keep the pies cold, and my mother had told me about some mythical bag that I could use to keep the pies cool on our trip.

Honestly. People have searched less hard for Nessie than I did for this made-up bag. Oh, I was irritated. People everywhere, frozen turkeys skidding out of hands, single women with carts full of cookies and 87 bottles of red wine, and ALL I WANTED WAS THIS URBAN LEGEND BAG.

Finally I asked a clerk, who swore he knew what I meant but couldn't find it either.

We paged the Hairy Peeter manager. He was about seven years old.

"It's Thanksgiving week and someone wants a FREEZER BAG?" he stormed out of the back room.

"Um, this is the customer, right here."

The manager, who was appropriately chagrined about complaining about me RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, told me they were phasing out the freezer bags to force people to buy the $11 Hairy Peeter bags.

"I'll take one," I said.

"WHAT?" both store clerks said.

"I don't even care. I just want to go home. Get me a Hairy Peeter bag."

"Red, green, or blue?" asked the manager.

And that, my dear friends, is how I ended up with the $11 carry-your-cold-foods bag. Which I guarantee you I will never use again. And if my family doesn't eat every bite of that ding-dang pie it is going up bums.

What am I talking about? Have I met my family? What pie?

Finally, there was good news in this otherwise press-your-boobages stress-about-holidays kind of a day.

I got pre-Christmas presents from my Aunt Mary. Yes, she IS the aunt who likes to shop.

I got a Christmas tee shirt…

…and this pretty ornament. Her little whatever-that-is that she's holding is actually pink. I do not know why it turned out blue in the photograph. I thought pictures didn't lie or whatever.

No. Pictures are worth a thousand words. What is it that doesn't lie? Crap. I hope the Cross-Dressing Old Grandma at Hairy Peeter didn't lie about those pies. Is what I hope. Because if you think my mother is gonna let it drop that my pies were no good…

Isn't there some religion I can become where I celebrate no holidays? And where I don't believe in mammograms? I'm going to start it. We'll be the Hairy Peeters. No. We'll be the Bed & Biscuits.



Health · June's stupid life

Wherein June passes

By the way, Marvin who? Since he got that car yesterday, which he wanted me to stress to you is BRONZE and not pink, he has been nowhere but under its hood. Right now the BRONZE car is going, "Vroom! Vroom!" and there is a sickening smell in this computer room, which is right next to the driveway, and I have no idea why men find cars enjoyable.

Bronze. Okay, it is so not bronze. If that pink car is bronze, I am Dinah Shore.

Did I ever tell you that my grandmother used to insist that Dinah Shore was a black woman who was passing? She used to say that Dinah Shore had had her skin bleached. She spoke with utmost authority, as though the skin-bleaching surgeon had been over earlier in the day. Had passed the Creamora across the vinyl tablecloth and told Gramma all about it.

Naturally, we all thought this was a berserk theory until after Gramma died and we were going through her things, and we found some sheet music in a piano bench? There was some sheet music "as sung by Dinah Shore" and I swear to you Dinah looked black in the little photo of her.

I do not know what to tell you about Dinah Shore.

In other pressing news, tomorrow is the date of my mammogram, and my, am I ever looking forward to it.

For those of you just tuning in, two years ago I had my first mammogram, and yes, you are supposed to start at age 40 but I was scared it would hurt. Which by the way it doesn't. But two years ago, my workplace had this thing where they'd pick us up in limos and give us sparkling cider and we'd all go get mammogrammed together, so I went.

I didn't think anything of it once I figured out it didn't hurt. As I was getting dressed, I saw they had free massages for women who got called back in, to reduce the stress, and I remember thinking, "Oh, how awful to get called back in."

Then a few days later they called me. "Hello, June? This is the Breast Looky-Loo Center Near Your Work."

My first thought was, wow, did I leave my coat there? Honest engine. That was my first thought.

"We need you to come back in and take some more pictures," they said.

My blood turned to ice. "Okay," I said. "How scared should I be?"

"Oh, not at all. This happens all the time," they said.

Okay, but had they MET me? The scardiest scared hypochondriac of all time? So I let myself freak out for one hour. I closed the door to my office and cried on the floor, then I came home and calmly blogged about it. Well. Calmly for me.


Okay, you know what? That was the worst advice I ever got in my life. Because I did NOT NEED to know what they THOUGHT they found. I would have needed to know what they DID find, had they found something, but for someone like me, finding out what they SUSPECTED they found did me NO GOOD AT ALL.

Because what they thought they found was totally scary. It was like the worst suspicion possible. That doctor might as well have written, "Oh, she has straight out the butt bad cancer. Plan her funeral."

And then of course I GOOGLED everything, which is similarly a bad idea. You can turn yourself into a ball of terror doing that. Don't ever do that.

Anyway, just like this year, it was right around Thanksgiving, and the Looky-Loo Breast Center Near My Work couldn't get me in for a few weeks. Yeah, right. I was gonna go around shaking and sweating and crying like this for a few weeks.

So I made an appointment at a place near my house, which turned out to be brilliant, because they have digital mammography, which means they can practically see every corpuscle and thought your breastical area has ever had. Plus also they got me in quickly.

But when I went to the first place to get my slides, I was so hysterical that they called my doctor, who called me to say, "This sounds really bad. Prepare for the worst."

HELLO! GOOD DOCTORING! Prepare myself for the WORST? Have you ever thought of working for a crisis line? Because by the time I hung up with him I was in a BALL on the couch.

Prepare myself for the worst. Good gravy.

So anyway, it turns out it was nothing. Well, probably nothing. There was a 2% chance it was something. They had me come back in six months just to make sure.

Guess who spent those next six months OBSESSED? OBSESSED! I have never been so miserable. I was so horrified. And then when I finally went back? It was fine.

So last year, at Thanksgiving, I went back to the digital place near my house for my regular mammogram. They told me they'd call the following Monday if there was gonna be a problem.

That Monday I was shopping for Thanksgiving, and I checked my messages, oh, 700,000 times. No call. Finally it was FOUR-FIFTY in the afternoon, and I was lounging with the cats, feeling secure, and the PHONE RANG!

They needed me to COME BACK IN! This time they saw something on the OTHER SIDE!

All I can tell you is I'm glad I'm not a mama dog with 48 teats or whatever. I'd have a heart attack.

So the day before Thanksgiving last year, they smashed the PEE out of me and figured out I had a totally benign thing going on. I am creating milk of magnesia over on the right or whatever. You need any?

And that is why, folks, I am SO excited to have my mammogram early tomorrow morning. Because so far these mammograms have been relaxing and enjoyable.

My hope is that the third time is a charm. They have now seen both hootie-hoots with their extra-glowy look-see digital machines, so I am hoping there is nothing to make them say, "Hey, hang on. What's that?"

I really picked the wrong week to stop shooting heroin. And passing for white.

I am berserk · June's stupid life

Greensboro Barbie

You know the part where I have a puppy?

And yes, half this picture IS some kind of odd color, and dude, I do not know what to tell you about this camera battery other than it is bad all the time. Yes, I did just call you dude.

Anyway, I have a puppy with an underbite, which I have been asking for for so very long, and all of a sudden I have one. Not an underbite. A pup. Did you wonder why?

Here is why. Yes, we brought Faithful Reader Laurie into our relationship.

No! Marvin and I compromised. I got to have a puppy, such as Edsel, if he could have a ridiculous old car. Today was the day Marvin got his car.

Faithful Reader and Friend in Real Life Laurie and I were at the movies, and we were yak yak yaking at the same time, until we pulled into my driveway just now and we both stopped everything and just said, "Ohhhh!"

I had no idea Marvin's ridiculous car would be pink! I actually LIKE the car! Who knew? And he likes Edsel. The whole thing was a win/win.

I wonder if Marvin would let me drive the pink car. You know, like as my permanent car. Because I think a pink car suits me. I could be like Malibu Barbie, except I'd be Greensboro Middle-Aged Barbie. There's an undepressing-sounding doll. Merry Christmas, honey! Mom got you Greensboro Middle-Aged Barbie! I even got you the little Ex-Lax box for when she's stopped up!

In other news, I had to exchange my cool boyfriend-style cordoroys that I bought at Banana Republic for…the next larger size today. Pretty much these are boyfriend cords if my boyfriend is John Candy.

Did someone say candy?

At any rate, I went to this sprawling outdoor mall near my house, where I-ate-too-many-Banana-muffins Republic is located, thinking I'd just pop in there really quickly before Faithful Reader and Friend in Real Life Laurie came over for our movie.


There were people DIRECTING TRAFFIC there. People were beating each other over the head for parking spots. Merchandise was flying out the window, folks were screaming, it was kind of like the scene in Do the Right Thing after Mookie throws the trash can through the window.

The good news is my new Junior Sample-sized boyfriend-who-looks-like-Amber's-boyfriend-on-Teen-Moms cords were ON SALE, so I got half off the price. Which is excellent considering I bought eight yards more material.

Did someone say sample? Are there Hickory Farms samples somewhere?

Anyway, that is all I have to tell you. Mrs. Oh is comment of the week, and I know she just won two weeks ago, but come on. She made up an anal bleaching song to Send in the Clowns. How can she NOT win.

Did someone say clowns? Is there ice cream cake?


June's stupid life · Weblogs

Linkin Nebraska

Often, people say to me, "Have you read that Hyperbole and a Half"? and I am all, "No" because I am completely self-centered and why would I want to read another blog? Besides, I love Miss Doxie even though she hasn't written for over a year.

Yesterday at work, a 64-year-old coworker who doesn't even READ blogs sent me a link to Hyperbole and a Half because in this particular post she talks about her dogs and all I have to say to y'all all is goodbye. This person is so effing funny you are going to (a) pee your leg and (12) leave me in a trail of something.

Here is the link.

I sent it to Marvin, and all night during his birthday dinner, he kept QUOTING this woman's blog. And giggling. And quoting another thing. Then he asked if I had seen her picture and looked ashamed. Because apparently she is also CUTE.

He might as well have hired a lap dance during dinner.

Also too, similarly funny Mrs. Oh has taken the engagement picture of my personal friends William and Kate and put the faces of Marvin and me in there. I look good with that body. News flash!

So go read those things. It was nice knowing you.


Current Affairs · June's stupid life · Marvin

Princess June and Birthday Boy Marvin

Today is Marvin's birthday. He is 14.

Here he is about to open his gifts. That's my coffee, of course.

"what dis birfday? never herd. edsel not have birfdays. r you sure there is rully such a thing?"

In other news, Marvin's school picture came, in case anyone would like wallet-size editions. Do I get a kick out of the fact that he gets school pictures every year?

In other also too news, WHO CANNOT GET OVER THE ROYAL WEDDING?!?!?!

This is the best thing that has happened to me since 1981, when Diana and Charles married. Oh, I think Kate is lovely, and poised, and all those things I am not. In that interview I totally would have made a dick joke, I just know it. William would not know where to put me.

I guess I would have been the Sarah Ferguson of the royal family.

Didn't she look BEAUTIFUL in that blue dress to match her engagement ring?

Katekatekatelovekateobsessedwithkate LOOK AT HER. She is perfect.

I got like this over Diana, by the way, but to tell you the truth, I think she is lovelier than Diana, even. Oh, she is perfect. And I like William a lot. He seems like a real person and not all stuffy.

And did you SEE Camilla saying how excited she was? Oh, I just wanted to shove an avocado in her face. I do not know why I picked an avocado. Just every time I see her I get violently angry. Camilla. If I were Kate, I would make a dick joke and shove food in my stepmother-in-law's face.

This is why I am not a princess.

Marvin just came in to say goodbye and read what I wrote about Kate, whom I love, and he said, "You're perfect, too."

Here is an actual unretouched photo of what I look like right this instant.

Poor Marvin. He is only 14, what do you want from him?

June's stupid life · Pieces of Wisdom

Pieces of Wisdom Wednesday: Whooo are you? Who who? Who who?

It's Wednesday, and it's once again time for Pieces of Wisdom. This week we all took the enneagram test, so we could get a little insight into the frighteningness that is our personality over here at Bye Bye, Pie. Yes, we all have one personality. It is all glommed together.

The enneagram is a personality test that looks at what motivates you psychologically. It sort of shows the way you look at life. There are nine different types you can be: the reformer, the helper, the motivator, the romantic, the thinker, the skeptic, the enthusiast, the leader or the peacemaker.

I picked this particular test over any other type because my stepfather is a psychiatrist, and yes I DO pronounce it pissakyatrist when I write it, and he said he really thinks the enneagram has a lot of credence. I didn't think pissakyatrists liked ANY personality tests, so I was all wow, really?

Because I am articulate.

Anyway, I was thinking maybe there was one type of person who read my blog, but in most cases, we are pretty evenly spread out. I will show you what percentages we were of each type, and I will link to descriptions of the various types if you want to learn more about them.

Perfectionosttype1 Eleven percent of you were reformers (also known as perfectionists). Now, please keep in mind that I am NOT a perfectionist, and also I have a degree in English, so my math may not be exact, here, but I checked it twice and that is what I got. You damn perfectionist.

Seventeen percent of my faithful readers were helpers. I thought it would be funny to show me helping Tallulah hump Winston for this particular shot, and all I can tell you is I have gouges the size of Topeka down the side of my arm. So much for styling THAT shot. So I helped give Edsel the bone he already had. You can see he's all, "alreddy haf bone, mom. i a smart breed. you not helping me. mom kind of a nummskull."

A mere 5% of you are performers/motivators. This did not stop me from striking this ludicrous pose, however. In second place after type 4, the romantic, which is coming up, I was most strongly a performer. So I'm a romantic performer. Ooo! Sounds dirty. Hello, mom.

I am pleased to report that the majority of us are artists/romantics, at 19%. Did you read our description, though? Don't we sound like self-centered arseholes? Asked the woman who has featured four pictures of herself so far on this post.

Fifteen percent of you are thinkers/investigators, and I heart myself so bad.

A mere 5% of my readers are skeptics/questioners, but I figured if Francis were a person he'd be a skeptic. He seems skeptical of all of us here in the house. As in, "Why all you alive?"

My theory is skeptical people have no interest in reading about the day-to-day life of someone and that is why so few read my blog. They are probably all, who cares? Or maybe they think I'm lying. Yes. I'm inventing this glamorous life.

I just noticed I misspelled "skeptic" on my sign, there. Skepic. Perhaps you are skepical of my proofreading skills.

I look less enthusiastic and more like I stepped on a scorpion.

Only 7% of you are enthusiasts/generalists. I am going to have to read up on all y'all, because I don't understand why the term "enthusiast" and "generalist" are used interchangeably for this particular group. Those seem like totally different things. You never hear of someone going to the enthusiast store to get soap and sugar and fabric.

See what I did, there? I put the leader sign next to our pack leader. And yes, she IS and I'm not. Edsel is looking at me like, "oh yes, she totalee is. pleese note she has my bone now."

And didn't I pay the Tea Partier to clean my house? Why is this carpet in need of sweeping? Did I tell you guys my TV was tuned to FOX when I turned it on last night? Swear. But she really did clean as well as watch TV.

Anyway, 10% of you are leaders. Pack leaders. Can you even THINK the words "pack leader" without hearing Cesar's accent?

A LOT of you are peacemakers–12%! You came in third, after the romantics and those helpers. What a group of wusses we are.

So thanks, everyone, for participating. I have no idea what it all means, but it was interesting. We should see how the general population answers this quiz and see if we match up. Also, why did I think making a peace sign in place of an "a" would make sense? Now it looks like it says peocemaker.

Hate self. Hate romantic performing self.

June's stupid life · Pieces of Wisdom

Pieces of Wisdom–Who the Hell ARE You?

In case you don't read the comments, I'd like you to just go back to yesterday's post and casually peruse it, and ask yourself, How in the Sam Holy Hill did that relatively benign post result in 114 comments on anal bleaching?

Y'all all are an interesting bunch. And this is why we are going to take a test today.  A reward, if you will.

My favorite teacher in high school used to give us these surprise quizzes and he'd say, "Today I am going to REWARD you. To give you a chance to show me all you've learned so far" and we'd all be, "Oh, crap."

If you had Mr. Parsons earlier in the day, your friends would ask, "Is there going to be a #$%*& REWARD today? Because I didn't do the reading."

Mr. Parsons is my Facebook friend, and whenever he clicks "Like" on any of my status updates I get a little thrill to this day. A reward.

Today we are going to take the enneagram test and see what kind of personality each of us has. I am curious to see if there is a type who reads this blog. I mean, other than the type who is unbelievably interested in anal bleaching.

Here is the test.

If you are my cousin Katie or, you know, my mom, you click on the blue words, you guys.

It took me about seven minutes to take, and I am a type four.

The enneagram has nine personality types:

The Perfectionist (HAH! So not me) (and yes, I know what I do for a living)

The Helper (HAAAAAAAA! Even more not me)

The Achiever (This was slightly me)

The Romantic (Hello. Where is my Vanderbilt perfume?)

The Observer (I think this is Marvin)

The Questioner (What? Why is there a questioner?)

The Adventurer (Yeah, no.)


and The Peacemaker (All we are sayyying…)

So go see which one you are. Here is part of the description of the splendor of Romantic me. Who should have never found that Vanderbilt perfume commercial from last week?

How to Get Along with Me

  • Give me plenty of compliments. They mean a lot to me.
  • Be a supportive friend or partner. Help me to learn to love and value myself.
  • Respect me for my special gifts of intuition and vision.
  • Though I don't always want to be cheered up when I'm feeling melancholy, I sometimes like to have someone lighten me up a little.
  • Don't tell me I'm too sensitive or that I'm overreacting!

I have special gifts. AND I AM NOT OVERREACTING! SHUT UP!

Okay, so take the quiz, and then come back and say which one you are. Please take it by 9 p.m. my time (Eastern time) so I can add up everyone's results and find out you are all Peacemakers and that is why you are staring at me like Yoko right now.

Okay, go!

Friends · June's stupid life

I survived the Nester visit

Today is the day my Tea Partier/Dog Walker is going to clean my disgusting house! Oh, what a red-letter day. I think it took as much time for me to prepare for her as it would have to, you know, clean the house.

Still. I am bad at cleaning. Do you clean the house and when you're done it doesn't look clean? Because that's what happens to me. If anyone has a clean-your-house tutorial, I would love that. Oooo! Pieces of wisdom idea!

In other news, the Nester came over on Saturday, as planned, along with her cute dad, her sister Chatting and their friend Annie, who was visiting from Nashville for the weekend and who I fell in love with immediately.

She had on these sparkly shoes:

Enough said. Oh, except she wore these shoes TO THE GRAMMYS. Hello. Love her. Want to be her.

At any rate, they delivered my new coffee table, which is delightful:

Look how I've already managed to mess it up with crap.

Then, are you sitting down? ARE YOU? Nester — no, wait. Are you sitting down for reals?

Nester walked around my house and ADMIRED THINGS! THE NESTER DID! You guys. If the Nester ever talks about me on her blog? Like she'll say, "This was big, like June's hair," I'll get 4,000 viewers that day. And those are just her DREGS.

She liked my cupboard in my kitchen, and she liked my pie painting in the living room, and she liked my anal color-coordinated books on my bookshelf, and she thought my house was cute, and I don't care if she was just being polite, it was like Coco Chanel saying, "Cute outfit."

In the meantime, Marvin played his victrola for Nester and Chatting's religious dad, and immediately played some 1920 song about a prostitute.


I'm being brought up and dragged down, all at the same time. He was jamming out to it, though, their dad, because I hate to say it but it's a catchy tune.


The only caveat to this whole shebang was I had to go to Chatting's house yesterday and get the drawer for the table, which meant Edsel got another play date with Chatting's puppy.

But Edsel was out-puppied this time and got scared of the ball of energy that was Finn.

"i not heer. play wif leef."

So there you go. Oh, and in case you were obsessed with looking at everything on my new coffee table, note I have March, our book club book that we are supposed to be reading. I am doing my part! Are you? Hmmmm?



Friends · June's stupid life


I have no real plans this weekend and it is lovely.

It is also convenient, since yesterday I went to bed at 6:15 p.m. I would have been a lot of fun had I had anywhere to go.

Today The Nester is coming over because I bought her old coffee table from her.

Oh my God. THE NESTER IS COMING OVER. I just thought about that. This house is ludicrous. I was thinking it didn't matter because the Tea Partier is gonna clean it on Monday, but now I have the world's most famous blogger of DECORATING coming OVER here.

Crap. I have the feeling Nester will love me even if my house looks like crap. Nester is a loving friend, and not a snoot, even though she could be, with her 8 million followers and her fancy decorating career and such.

But what if she sees the eleventy catalogs on my dining room table, not to mention the CAT LITTER BOX UNDER THE DINING ROOM TABLE, and never speaks to me again? What if she IS a snoot?

The other day I noticed someone had unfriended me on Facebook and I felt bad, and someone at work said, "Well, if they unfriended you, are they really worth having as a friend in the first place?"

I do not understand secure, reasonable people like that. I was on Expedia buying a plane ticket to the Unfriender's house, to make him like me again.


Other than The Nest coming, I am going to plant the rest of my bulbs, because the last time I had to stop due to being attacked by fire ants which by the way hurts. I am thinking those bastards are all frozen and dead now, and I am glad of it. I wish I could have been there while they chilled to death, frankly. Piercing little red dinks.

Then my friend The Other June and I might do something tomorrow. It is all sort of up in the air.

I love weekends where I have nothing to do.

What are y'all doing this weekend?

Comment of the week goes to Tammi V.V., because after I read about the Statler Brothers and the avocado carpet I giggled for the rest of the night. Click on Special of the Week or this Week's Special or whatever the Sam Holy Hill I named that thing.