I am berserk · June's stupid life


Jadasabitch That bitch.

When I wasn't catching up on the news yesterday, I was doing this:


I KNOW!!!!! From reading about a bitch to having one on my lap.

In case you were Googling the number for Animal Hoarders, this is not my puppy. WOULD THAT IT WERE.

My coworker, who I failed to ask what she wanted her blog name to be because we were, you know, BUSY WITH PUPPEEEE, found this little muffin on Craigslist yesterday, and let me just say for the record things are a little slow at work right now.

Anyway, she emailed me–and my coworker in real life has one of those first names that is two first names mooshed together, so let's call her TinaDoris.

Because that is a beautiful combination and sometimes I worry about the inside of my head.

So TinaDoris emailed me with this puppy's photo, and of course I squealed and swooned and fell in love, and she said her fiance had already said, No puppies right now.

"I'll go with you after work and get it anyway," I said, because I do nothing but improve relationships worldwide.

Lucky for us, the soon-to-be Mr. TinaDoris saw the picture of the pup and relented. And then TinaDoris brought her new child over to my house after work, because I pretty much demanded she do so.

Here is their first-ever photo and look how cute! Do you know what I love? Is new puppy's little feather on her head, there. When you see it up close it really looks like a white feather. When TinaDoris and her (surprisingly hot) fiance left, she was trying to talk him into the name Pocahontas. Not for himself. For the puppy. Keep up.

I say surprisingly hot not because TinaDoris herself isn't a little bundle of hotness. I had every faith she could score a cute man. But the photo of him on her desk did not do him justice.

Hottiewithpup Guess who wasn't as into the pup as we were? Also? Guess who looks a lot like my friend Dave Newman, who just wrote that movie I forced you all to go see (Friends with Benefits! It's still out, I think. Go see it a second time!)?

Not-Pocahontas was clearly already bonded with TinaDoris. We went outside, to encourage pee-age, not from any human but for the pup, and she kept leaping back to her mom, even though she'd only known her an hour and had known me for almost that long so why couldn't she have bonded WITH ME? Why couldn't it have been so obvious she loved ME that TinaDoris would have had to surrender the puppy? For her own happiness?

Notsomuchladee where mom? mom hair not ensayne like dis ladee hairs.

And speaking of happy? I put old Fang and Snarl in the back yard the minute TinaDoris and Not-Pochahontas got here, and pretty much here is what we experienced the entire time:

"Woofwoofwoofwoofwoofwoofwoofwoof! Woof!"

And also?

Displeeze andersun displeeze. show you my puff taale.

Hissss no. seersly. coming to kick puppee azz now.

The puppy kept cavorting over to Anderson, being all young and innocent and having no idea she could get her eyeses clawed to bits.

Anyway. That was my excitement last night. I think there should be some kind of law; every time someone gets a new puppy, I have to meet it first. And Anderson gets to puff at it.

What say you?

Family · Friends · June's stupid life

Hulk eats chick pee. A tale by June.

Do you know what people need to do right now? Is leave me alone. I have been gone a bunch of days this month, so I am behind on everything, and I have one of my statistics textbooks to work on, and I feel like it's all I can do to get to my next mission.

Go to work, walk the dogs, post something on my blog, make lunch, work on textbook and then BOOM! I get one of those phone calls or emails: "Where ARE you? Why am I not hearing from you?"

You wanna know what stresses me out? One of those messages. All you have to do is look at my blog or Facebook to know I have not expired. I AM BUSY RIGHT NOW, PEOPLE.


Anyway. Hulk was kind enough to take time out of his frenetic schedule (go to work, think about sports, think about naked women, put on Hawaiian shirt) to post about our evening at my cousin's wedding, so now I will do so.

The day dawned early for me, as I had to be at a hair salon to get some random gorgeous Indian woman to wrap me in my sari. And by "early" I mean I had to be there at 2:00. Whatever.

Undergarment This is the undergarment portion of the sari. June. Showing her chones on her blog since 2011. Unless I have shown them before. In which case it'd be since whatever year that was.

Out of all the white chicks going to this shindig in a sari, not a one of us knew how to wrap ourselves up in it. "Can't we Google it?" I asked. I always want to turn to Google first. Often I wonder how I lived without Google. Sometimes I Google that. "How did I live without you?" I ask Google.

Anyway, I wish I had thought to take pictures of everyone emerging from the room where the hot Indian woman above wrapped everyone's sari. It was so beautiful! Magenta, yellow, violet, green–every bright color you can think of emerged from that room.

Mom took the shot above and you can see whose photography gene I inherited. Mom was all excited because the wrapper woman was Muslim, and my cousin is Catholic and she's marrying a Hindu. She got all we-are-the-world, Wee Pals about it. I just waited for my sari to be done.

Here's a picture of the wedding party, so you can see how lovely all the colors were. So cool! My cousins include the bride in white, my cousin Katie next to her in pink–and yes I DID want that pink sparkly one, but that's the dress Maria was married in in India, so I did not rate that one, my cousin Jennifer in purple third from left and my cousin Nonnie at the end in black and blue. The other womenses are Maria's many many friends.

I had to, you know, hang out in my sari all afternoon, but it was so comfy I ended up falling asleep on the couch with it on for about an hour. June. Taking advantage of every last second she had in Michigan.

Finally at 6:00 on the dot, Hulk arrived, because Midwesterners are a timely people. He had his ludicrous Indians shirt on and we all got a big charge out of his ridiculous self. Injuns
My mother had some of her friends over already before the wedding, because she's sociable that way. If I had people in and out my house all the time like my mother has, I would commit hari-kari. I am sort of an introvert in my own strange way. I like my alone time.

Hulk and I drove over there alone, although originally my mother had asked if she could ride with us, as she was getting up with my stepfather there. "You want to…ride with us?" I asked. "Yes, and maybe Hulk's mom should come too," mom said, getting a big kick out her own self. "I mean, shouldn't he bring his wife?"

The Hulk-married-his-mom joke. Being dropped by any of us since 2008. (If you just got here, a few years back Hulk witnessed his mom's wedding at the courthouse. He signed the wrong line and technically married her. The end.) (We have not let it drop for even a millisecond.)

Oooo, right away when I got there I knew everything was gonna be pretty.

A Ganesha ice sculpture! Too cool! Literally.

As Hulk told you, I got him a seat at the bar and loaded us up with delicious Indian food. There were American things too, but why eat those when you can get Indian tidbits?

You'd have thought I presented Hulk with a plate of my innards.

"What…is all this?" he asked, looking horrified. Who on this earth hasn't heard of hummus? Hulk. That's who. And you should've seen the teensy girly bites he would take, and then spit everything out like a fussy toddler. Thank heavens they were serving American light beer or he'd have been doomed.

Hulk got to meet my whole family, and he bonded with Aunt Sue over wanting cheese and crackers and fruit to eat, and I am sorry to tell you the two of them may have chanted "USA! USA!" while they headed for "real" food.

WhatEVER with the xenophobia.

The dining room itself was dark, and I took 2949403 photos and not one turned out well.

Here's a bad picture of me putting the napkin on my head.

Here's another bad picture of me balancing a spoon on my nose.

June. Bad at photography. Good at being appropriate at weddings.

Here's kind of a cool picture of the bride and groom making their entrance, which only showed up because the real photographer's flash went off for me. I think Sachin, my new cousin-in-law, is hot. Mrs. Robinson called…

Ooo, speaking of which, I was in line for dinner and there was a cute cute cute boy behind me. Hulk and I were not in line together so I was free to hit on just everyone. We talked, and he told me I looked great in my sari, and we started discussing if we still lived in Saginaw. "I left in 1992," I told him.

"I was four in 1992," he said.

It was at that point that I impaled myself on the Ganesha sculpture.

At any rate, Hulk and I giggled and cavorted and chatted with people and had an excellent time. And I am pleased to report he was willing to dance, which is more than I can say for most dates. In fact, I kept getting up and bursting onto the dance floor without checking if he wanted to come with me, so used to undancey dates am I.

DanceEnclosed please find a photo of my cousin Katie and me, shakin' our goove thangs. Also in the background in the black pattered dress is my other cousin Katy (yes, we have two Kat[y]ies) and my cousin Missi in the white skirt. The four of us are dancing fools at all weddings.

It occurred to me my post about this night was gonna suck, seeing as I could get no good photos, so I took this one while I was on the pot in the women's room Note the beautiful necklace Faithful Reader Furry loaned me!

And yes. Hulk did not lie. After the food, the drinks, the photo booth, the 99493040 hours of dancing and the hobnobbing with my family, he took me home and we only got to third base.

If third base is hugging. I forget.

While I've been writing this? I just got a message from the textbook place. Can I proofread a web ad, a letter, and a catalog in the next few days on top of the book I am reading?

"June, why haven't I heard from you!!?!?!" AACCCK!


Family · Friends · June's stupid life

Hulk’s Story: Going with June to a Family Wedding

[Seeing as Hulk has already written his post, and I have not written mine, I will publish his now and you'll see mine on Tuesday…]

So we kissed.  Lightly at first, smiling, giggling, playfully looking into each other’s eyes, like schoolkids hoping not to get caught by our parents.  But then the kiss grew more passionate.  I held her face in my hands; she pulled her body into mine as she wrapped her arms around me. I began to reach down—


Who loves himself? 

June informed me that we were going to write a “he said/she said” post about our date to her cousin’s wedding reception. “Um…what?” I asked helpfully.  She replied, “I asked you a month ago if you would write a guest post about tonight and you agreed.  Have it to me by Sunday.”  “Hmmm…God help you, Whitman” I thought to myself.  But I decided that since refusing was only going to hurt my chances at getting some action later, I agreed to do it.  Here is the play-by-play…

June and I attended her cousin’s wedding reception; a joyous affair to be sure.  June’s family is just as nice, and nuts, as she is.  And I mean that in a good way…

The evening began by me getting dressed in my best shirt and tie.  And my Tribe jersey.  What? It was an Indian wedding…

Hulkindian Okay.  Bad joke aside, June met me at the front door, and I must say, she looked absolutely stunning in her sari. I mean, I was like, “Damn.  I should really try to tap that later…” (Hi, Mother!) 

Namaste June introduced me to some family friends as “Hulk.”  I mean, really.  I HAVE a real name.  But no. To everyone June knows I am Hulk. And for some reason they are always excited to meet me. Now THAT part I understand. But really? “Hulk”? What am I, nine? But I digress…

The reception was only a few minutes away from Mother’s house, and we arrived around 6 PM.  One of the first people I met was Uncle Leo.  

LeoUncle Leo’s first word to me? “Hello…”  Just like on ‘Seinfeld’! I am sure it was completely unintentional, but that was it. I was dead right there. Uncle Leo was dressed in traditional Indian garb. I think. I’ve never been there. Shoesoleo But he looked good. None the worse for wear after his throwing-up-for-days episode.

June and I then entered the bar area, where there was a table full of hors d'oeuvres.  Now, a little about me here.  I am a picky eater.  Like 10-year-old-girl picky. And yet I am overweight. Figure that one out. Anyway, June got us a plate to share full of all kinds of Indian food. There were green things, fried green things, and hummus.  She told me hummus is made from chick peas.  You can imagine the giggles I had over THAT. Chick pee. But I wanted to be open-minded, so I tried a few items.  I’m not sure, but I think I tasted goat balls. And I am SURE there was sliced animal penis as well.  I was Tom Hanks in Big when he tries the caviar…

And, I must say this here: June talks to EVERYBODY. EVERY.BODY. We were taking our seat at the bar and she was chatting up some dude before her fanny hit the cushion! He must have thought he hit the jackpot, what with this hot chick in a blue sari all, “What do you do? Where do you live?”…Then there was the retired doctor who was sucking down screwdrivers like someone was gonna TAKE them from him.  June was all, “Who here are you friends with?  Do you have any children?  What does your son do?”  “He’s an emergency room physician…”  (Huh.  An Indian doctor whose son is a doctor. You could have knocked me over with a feather…)

June also used this time (and it was a LOOOOONG time, as the bridal party took forever to arrive, irking June to no end) to point out hot women for me to check out.  “There’s one…the gal with the long black straight hair…”  “It’s an INDIAN wedding, June,” I replied. “Could you be a little LESS specific?? I mean, throw a dart…”  But there were some very attractive ladies there.  I was hesitant to really point any out myself, for fear of June going, “That’s my 24-year-old cousin, you perv!”  And June, I have to say, you were as gorgeous as any of them.  Now now…don’t get the wrong idea here.  I’m just saying…don’t worry about dudes not finding you attractive. Honey, you are a babe.  Nice rack, too…


Finally the happy couple arrived, and we were herded in for dinner. Except that we still couldn’t eat.  There were the introductions of the wedding party, there were the 589437768484 speeches made by every person the bride and groom ever met  and then a reading by June’s stepdad (which June and I snickered through, irking MOTHER to no end, I am sure), there was the leaning cake-cutting (I swear, the cake was LEANING; I cringed every time someone walked past that table).  Finally I had to excuse myself…I had to “break the seal,” if you know what I mean (I had three glasses of water and four beers.  My friggin’ TEETH were floating!).  When I got back, everyone at our table was gone!  Nice joke, gang.  Then I figured either someone farted, or it was our turn to eat.  Luckily I saw Mother in line, so off I went to join them.  After the goat balls, my picky self was scared at what they might serve as a main course, so I loaded up on salad.  Turns out though, that they had traditional Indian food on one side and good ol’ ‘Merican fare on the other.  Awesome prime rib and potatoes.  Whose heaping salad went virtually untouched?

After dinner and the typical dances with the parents and such, the partying began.  We danced, we drank, and we took pictures (shocked you are, I’m sure).  They even had one of those photo booths?  Like at carnivals?  With props and everything.  You get your picture taken, and then they glue it into an album for the couple.  Did June make me do this?  What do you think?  Booth Years from now they will be looking through that book, and they’ll see our picture and go, “Why did June bring Shrek to our wedding reception?”

As the night wore on, I got to hear all the fun June’s family stories.  I got to be introduced as “Hulk” to people who had no clue what that meant.  I met Aunt Sue; I blame her.  I met Smokin’ Hot Aunt Kathy (SHOUT-OUT!!), Kathy
June’s beautiful cousin Katie that she always talks about (and she ain’t lyin’), Mother’s good friend (“Are you Hulk?? You’re so famous!!”)…all in all it was a fun night.

June and I left, and I dropped her off at Mother’s, gave her a hug (a HUG!) and said goodnight.  Sorry to disappoint you all, but we did NOT hook up. Really though…wouldn’t that kind of be the Jump The Shark moment for this blog?  Kind of like when Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepard got together on Moonlighting, no?

I am berserk · June's stupid life · Travel

Butt Tour 2011

Zzzzzzzz–oh! Is mom's computer finally ready? I logged on in 1712.

I know I never complain about the slowness of this computer. And in general, I have such patience. Instant gratification takes too long.

Anyway, I'm here. I drove straight through. And do you know what I had? Was a lack of ridiculousness on that drive.

I decided to get the oil changed before I left, seeing as I was gonna drive 730 miles and such. The last time the oil had been changed was when Marvin still lived with me; he did all the car things.

So I'm sitting there at the Jiffy Lube, and I thought, you know what I should do? Is check how much money I have. I thought I had about $600 to my name, which was gonna be more than enough for gas and a room, should I not make the whole drive.


That's what I had in checking. A HUNDRED THIRTY-EIGHT DOLLARS.

Do you know who has a tight grip on her finances? Is your pal Money Wizard June, here. Once I perused my account, it made sense. Oh, yeah, I had my roots done. Oh yeah, the emergency vet bill. Oh, right! The lacy bra that was $58.

You know, once you start spending money you chip away at the $600 you were thinking was in there, like an unmoving lump.

Money tips. By June. I am so starting a new segment of this blog.

This $138 cash flow influenced my decision to not stop at a hotel, and also to have a Peanut Buster Parfait for dinner.

So I'm screaming along through 86 states to get home, and I had stopped a few times: for gas, to a rest stop, to get that Peanut Buster Parfait, and I noticed my seat felt kind of, I don't know, sticky.

"Wow, these pants feel like a leather seat," I thought, continuing my vein of smartness.

Edsel had chewed a giant hole in the buttockal/girl parts region of my yoga pants. The yoga pants all the men at Jiffy Lube saw. Basically it was a whole June's Vagina Exposed tour.

I had to pull over, drag my exposed sugar walls to the trunk, get out a skirt, and do the whole "slip on the skirt/slip off the stupid half-eaten yoga pants" move.

I abhor Edsel.

After that I decided I needed caffeine as a reward, and yes I AM supposed to not drink caffeine. Shut up.

I bought the coffee, left the coffee on the counter because I was busy reading emails, had to go BACK INSIDE and get my coffee while the coffee woman–who had star tattoos on the side of her face–laughed at ME, and get in my car.

Fourteen seconds later I spilled the coffee all down the front of my white tank top. I looked like poor Jackie Kennedy's suit when they swore in Lyndon Baines Johnson.

So basically? Fun trip. Good times. Relaxing. I did find a channel on my Sirius radio that is an all-book channel, but they read one book for an hour and you get all into it and they read another book the next hour. Chaps my hide. Well. My exposed buttocks on my hot leather seat is what chapped my hide technically, but still.

The wedding is at 6:00, so maybe I better start worrying about that. It's only eight hours away. Gotta primp.

After all, it's my day.


June's stupid life · Travel

In which June blows off the South to be the bland Midwesterner she’s always been

I'm getting ready to get in the car to leave for Saginaw, and by "getting ready" I mean I'm sitting here blogging.

Somebody just pulled into my driveway to turn around, and I don't know about you, but if we were all in the car in high school? And we pulled into someone's driveway to do that? We'd all shout, "GET OUT THE BEER AND PRETZELS!"

Because, you know. We might be unexpected company. See.

No, I didn't grow up in a totally blue-collar town, with the beer and the pretzels. Why do you ask?

Also? A thing that makes me shudder and wonder why I am here talking to you about all the pressing details of the day? Is the memory of me in the car with my high school friends. Holy cats. We were one of those "Don't Drink and Drive" videos in the making. Sometimes the whole point of the evening was, "Let's drive around and drink!"


So on that note, I'm about to get on the road for 13 hours to be home in time for my cousin's wedding. Yes, I know she already got married in India. We don't believe her and we're making her do it in front of our own eyes here in America where it counts. We all have shotguns and torches.

I have packed nothing and you know that means I will do it hurriedly and get there and realize I forgot my arms.

One thing I did manage to do was ask Marvin if he could come stay with the dogs rather than me taking them to daycare, so I don't have to endure Vomitfest Deux when I get back. He is annoyed with me because today is the first day of school, but I hardly see what one thing has to do with the other. Just show a film strip. Geez.


Junetouchesbull When I went to the movies with Dick and his Whitman the other night, we stopped off and looked at this inexplicable bull. I liked him because he has a barrel chest like Tallulah.

Lu dere statoo of talu somewheres?

Do you like how she was RIGHT NEXT to me and still I could not take an unblurry picture of her?

Anyway. I had better pack. Last time I forgot to bring my migraine meds and I had to seduce the woman at Target pharmacy to give me pills and then I never got a migraine. Annoying.

Okay, I'm off. Carry on.

June can't keep a man · June's stupid life

June on veeedeo

I went to the movies with Dick Whitman last night. Yes, I know Dick Whitman and I broke up. Try to keep up with the ups and downs of my life, will you? We saw The Help, which some of us read on my blog's book club, here, and the movie was excellent.

Dick Whitman got a bag of M&Ms and ate three of them again.

Anyway, attached please find a video we made. He wanted me to meet his cute mom. Not that she's a desktop computer. But he wanted me to record a hello to her, seeing as she is still Team June and reads this blog. (I guess I have an unfair advantage over the rest of his considerable harem, seeing as I am the only one with a blog.)

Download Medium

I like how I ask him a question and then don't remotely wait for him to answer. Do I do that in real life, those of you who know me in real life?

June's stupid life · Music · Not Grace Kelly

In which June acts the fool (or, I’m not a perfect person)

I love the song The Reason by Hoobastank. Also, my next pet is going to totally be named Hoobastank.

I know the song is 10 years old, but I like it anyway. I was drawn to it originally because there is a big ruby in the video and if you show me something shiny and pretty I will be drawn to it, as I'm a crow. But then I just started liking the song in general.


They were playing it at the Harris Teeter, there, where I shop. I shop at Harris Teeter almost every day, a fact that annoys the hoobastank out my mother. "Write a list, honey," she says. But I really don't mind going to Harris Teeter. It's like two minutes away and what else do I have to do?

The point is, I must feel at home there, because I was at the coffee beans, grinding the decaf with my little pinch of caf I allow myself, and I was sing-sing-singing along.

"I FOUND a reason for meeeeeee," I sang, dumping the beans in, "to change how I used to beeeeeee…"

You know, Marvin didn't allow me to sing in the house. I offended his fine musical ear.


"You, um, certainly like that song," said a man who I had NO CLUE was there. He was looking at prepackaged beans. He totally looked like that guy who played the counselor in Freaks and Geeks. Did you watch that show? Netflix it. It is a wonderful wonderful show.

So that was my humiliation. But it gets better! Oh, yes!

Many people at work do this workout in a spare room both at noon and after work. I decided to join them, with my athletic self, and did I mention one of the people who does this workout is my pal Vilhelm Oyster, who is lean and muscular and has no fat on him whatsoever?

I got into my workout clothes, which by the way, I meant to pack my "I'm kind of a big deal on the internet" shirt that Faithful Reader Joann gave me, but in my haste I packed my "Owl are Assholes" tshirt, which meant I had to wear it inside-out seeing as I was at work.

My POINT is, could this workout have been harder? Holy cats in a blanket. We were working our core, and if I HAD a core, it would be exhausted. And when I was done? I still had four hours left of work.

"I just got done working out. My hair looks like my brain has finally snapped," I wrote to Daniel Boone once I minced back to my desk. Seriously. It was ALL OVER the place, whipping to and fro. I was whipping my hair back and forth, but not in a cute Willow Smith kind of a way.

And could I have been more perspire-y?

Bringing sexy back. Is what I did over in my cube all afternoon.

And then finally, I had to go bra shopping tonight because as we all know, I need a strapless brassiere. And yes, I said "brassiere" because I am your grandma.

So I was trying on the bras, and I finally settled on a nice lacy one that I would show you but my exhibitionism only goes so far. Afterwards, I decided to shop around at other stores, because I really need a blue tank top to go under my sari for this weekend.

Shop after shop I entered, talking to sales clerks, smiling at people. And when I got home?

I realized my shirt was on backwards. The scoop was all in the back. The front was all up under my business. And my hair still had the "my brain snapped" look from working out eight hours earlier.

Wait. How is it I haven't managed to snag a new husband yet?


June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

June and her motorcycle gang self

It's Monday! Wooooooo!

Okay, I really don't give a crap that it's Monday. I like the weekends, I like my job, I don't mind going to it. Either way it's fine with me. I am not Garfield.

Oh. Hang on. Had to stitch up my sides just thinking of that funny Garfield. Where's the lasagna?

So when we last left off with each other, Daniel Boone had come over to rescue my sick arse. I warned him I have no personality when I have a migraine, but he persevered. He made quesidillas. Ole! And they were delicious. Si! Okay, I will stop being bilingual now. Holy frijoles!

Daniel B. had leftover chicken and bacon (yes. bacon. Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm MMM.) and he said, "Where can I put this while we eat so the dogs won't get it?"

I don't know. Cambodia? The dogs were BESIDE themselves that someone was cooking in general in there. They had their napkins tied around their necks and a knife and fork in each paw. So excited were they that something other than coffee and haste were being made in that kitchen.

Finally, DB decided to store the food in the oven, so he opened the door, and Edsel lept 149 feet out of his fur so just his skeleton hovered in the air. He had no idea that thing had a door that opened.

Edsluvall explaan again about oven door, mom. it so shocking.

As we were feasting, DB kept saying, "Shall I bring you more? You okay with drinks? I'll let the dogs out." Finally I had to remind him it was MY house and he was supposed to be the guest.

Why does everyone come over here and just take care of me? I can't complain about this phenomenon, really.

Then once he had fed me, I killed DB and left his corpse on my back deck. YOU HAVE SERVED YOUR PURPOSE, MAN! I EAT YOU LIKE BLACK WIDOW!

Really he is putting up my screen door, here, and I wish I had thought to, you know, photograph it once it was up but I have been busy, dawgs.

For example, I was quite caught up in making a mustache out of Tallulah fur that DB gathered up. Also I needed to show my bra strap. Because we all don't get enough of that.

But my new screen door makes such a wonderful squeaky Walton's-screen-door sound, and it has such a rewarding FWAP! when it shuts. Screen door! Yay!

We enjoyed having our beloved Daniel Boone over, is what I'm telling you. Tallulah is hopelessly enamoured of him. She is totally writing "Lu luv Daneeel" on her notebooks right now. Remember how we'd use the front of our notebooks, and with the eraser write a big heart and the name of who we liked in it? My heart always read "Barry Gibb." No, I wasn't a giant loser in school. What do you mean?

Daniel Boone had fun, too. He said despite the fact that my personality had one hand tied behind its back with my migraine and all, I am still the most delightful woman on planet Earth. Okay, maybe he said "delightful" without all the other crap. Whatev.

At any rate, on Sunday I had to get the hell on the road to meet The Fireman for my big ride on his manly bike and then for a manly hike. Who pretended she was atheletic and fun in order to reel in The Fireman? And who totally got jewelry out of the deal?

The Fireman thinks jewelry is a huge waste of money and does not see the point of women needing jewelry. You can imagine this has been a topic of conversation I…revisit, seeing as THERE IS NOTHING MORE APPALLING THAN A MAN WHO WON'T BUY JEWELRY.

The other day I got him to reverse his stance on something or other and I said, "That was easy. How much do you have to like me before I can get you to start wanting to buy me jewelry?"

Now, here is the thing about The Fireman. He thinks things through a lot. Like, once I mentioned my deep and abdiding love for the royal family and he scoffed.

The next time we saw each other, he said, "You know, I thought about my reaction to you about the royal family. That was unfair. Instead of making fun of you, what I should have done is ask you what it is about them that compells you."

I thought that was wonderful. I opened my mouth to speak and he said, "Oh for God's sake don't really TELL me. I was just saying what I SHOULD have done."

Who kills me? So anyway, Fireman gave this huge diatribe on how he COULD change his mind SOME day on the jewelry thing, and my point is after our ride on his hog (are hogs only Harleys? Because he doesn't have a Harley. Whatever.), we took this big hike and when we got to a clearing, we sat down.

"You know, I have given more thought to the jewelry thing," he said, PULLING OUT A BOX.

I panicked a little.

And then?

Don't ever let it be said The Fireman never gave me anything. A stretchy ring with sequins on it! Who loves himself?

I told him the good news is it can only go up from here.

So let's not skip over the part where June, here, got on a FRICKING MOTORCYCLE. Oh, I was nervous. I WANTED to try it and yet I was horrified.

The Fireman said, "My friends thought it was interesting you were willing to do this."

"Do they think I'm daring?" I asked.

"No. It's just you're climbing up and wrapping your legs around someone you barely know."

"Story of my life," I said.

Now, see. Why I gotta say stuff like that? It just SLIPS OUT before I can stop my own self. Who thinks I am a giant tramp now? Is the The Fireman? Grace Kelly, once again.

There it is. AAAACK! And note the helmet with CRUSHED SKULLS that was for me. I mentioned a pink sparkly helmet would be a must in the future. Who is a delightful, unfussy date? Who was already irked at me because I brought a purse? Like I was gonna go all day without my lipstick. Come on.

Pretty. Suddenly religious. June.

I get on the thing, and here was my brain:

OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD! AAACK! AAACK! …Oh! Hunh. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!

The whole rest of the way, my brain just said Wheeeeeee! Oh, that was fun! I wasn't even scared after the first minute. I was born to ride, dudes. I am a biker bitch.

Or at least half that.


Food and Drink · Friends · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life

A lift of the puny

In case you were worried sick and barfing on your dining room rug, everyone here seems to be on the mend.

Tallulah was still feeling puny yesterday. And it doesn't bug me when they throw that pillow on the floor or anything.

But today she and Edsel seem to be back to their ludicrous selves. Eating the kittens, getting in my way with EVERY STEP I TAKE like they're members of the Police, fighting each other over toys and food and, you know, kitten necks.

It's good to have them back.

Andersonnot shur anderson agree with assessmint, mom.

Because everyone looked like they would live, I was able to join my most excellent friend Chatting at the Sky for frozen custard.

No. I have no idea why I can't shed the weight. And by the way, anyone asks you for frozen custard, you go. You go, girl. Because apparently it's 1996. Talk to the hand.

Frozen custard is way better than frozen yogurt. Puleeze. It is Coco Chanel to Old Navy. It is Anais Nin to Erica Jong. It is — okay, I can't think of any more but you feel me. I ordered Vanilla Wafer topping and Chatting said, "Okay, healthy."

Healthy. Because that entire meal (and yes, it was dinner for me) was balanced and uplifting. "Well, MY topping's gonna be Heath Bar, so compared to me it's healthy."

And that is why friends are good. Their decadence makes you seem saintly.

Speaking of saintly, Chatting has a new book out. I know! How cool is she? It's all about how she grew up being good and all Christian and so forth and how it made her different.

Do you know what I like about Chatting? I mean other than the fact that she puts up with me calling her Chatting? Is that we talk like madwomen and she's all Christian and faithful and I'm such a heathen. And never once does she judge me and I never judge her and we never try to change each other because I think there's nothing we would change. I think she's the bomb.


I am Christian you are not. doo-dah. doo-dah. I am Christian you are not, all the livelong day. I am Christian, yay! You are Christian, nay.

I think oftentimes, those of us not in an organized religion get this attitude that everyone who's IN an organized religion is gonna convert us. Kind of like how some people get the mistaken attitude that gay people will try to convert them. But in my experience, neither group has tried to lure me in.

Maybe I am completely undesirable to everyone.

I don't know. I'm just saying. Chatting's faith is a huge part of her life, and my higher power is mascara, and yet there we sat for an hour and a half, never running out of stuff to say and never running out of stuff we agree on.

Oh, and speaking of which, that Diorshow was a total disappointment to me. It wears off by the end of the day. Am questioning my faith in Dior cosmetics.

Oh, oh! And for those of you who are praying people, I am getting on a motorcycle this weekend and your good thoughts thrown my way are appreciated. Yes, I am. Yes, it is The Fireman's doing. Yes, I am pretending to be daring and whimsical so I can reel him in and go back to my fearful bitchy self. I mean, if I live through this.

Actually, I have always wanted to ride on a motorcycle, for some reason. So now's my chance. My mother said, "Are you wearing a helmet?"

"Yes, of course. He is bringing one for me."

"Is he bringing one that'll fit your hair?"

Now, won't she feel bad when I am smashed to smithereens and that's the last thing she ever said to me?

At least my last meal was frozen custard.


June's stupid life · My pets

Sick as a dog

I went to get my dogs from daycare yesterday, as I had planted them there since the weekend so I could jaunt off to the beach like a carefree single mom.

Actually, some of my friends are single moms of, you know, actual humans, and they are rarely carefree. So I went to the beach like a carefree owner of dogs, thinking they'd be happy and entertained at daycare.

They emerged from the playroom as they always do, hysterical and overwrought, and we got in the car as we always do, Edsel in the back seat because he's beta dog, Tallulah in the front because she is in charge of all of us. As soon as daycare is out of sight, Talu always sighs and puts her head on my lap. Which makes it easy to shift.

But then? A couple hours after we were home? The Edsel, there? He took to barfin'.

I mean, it wasn't just a one-time-only deal. He was bringing up the past. He was showing me stuff he ate in Ancient Rome. It was ludicrous. I had to take the sisal rug outside and hose it off. I used up all the paper towels. I Sharked my floor. Which turned out to be useless, as you will soon see.

Sickeds He was clearly miserable.

I was chatting with The Fireman, telling him Edsel had been sick. The Fireman has a Lab, because he is manly that way. "Poor dog," he said, not seeming too concerned.

Right then poor Edsel hurled again. "He's foaming at the mouth," I wrote.

"Get that dog some medical attention," said The Fireman. I figured he'd dashed to plenty a dog-foaming-after-barfing rescue and knew what he was talking about.

So poor Edsel and I went to the emergency vet, and I knew he was really sick because he (a) didn't care when I got his leash and (b) didn't care when we saw a bunny in the field next to the emergency vet.

Naturally, I knew the receptionist. "I know you!" she chirped, all redheaded and 22. (Yes, Marvin, she's at the emergency vet on Battleground. I think she always works nights.) (Marvin likes him a redhead.) Turns out she used to work at my regular vet, plus she had been the receptionist on duty when Henry was hurt after the Rally to Restore Sanity last fall. Remember that? When I took the train home and Marvin had waited till I got home to worry about the part where Henry's arm was swollen 80 times its normal size? (You could have met the redhead THEN, Marvin.)

Edsel crammed his head behind my knee while the vet took our info. "I'm gonna take Edsel back and run tests," she said, reaching for his leash. Edsel licked her. "It's okay if you kiss me after you puked. Part of my job."

Edsel looked longingly at me while they led him back, and I went to the lobby and chatted with a delightful gay man who had a Jack Russel/Chihuahua mix that I am sort of shocked to tell you was actually adorable once she emerged.

The point is, they decided Edsel had stress colitis from being at dog daycare. Who is the worst worst worst mom ever? The vet said, "We can see he's clearly a mama's boy" (Edsel was back with me and standing behind my knee again). "Some dogs just get stressed out even if they're playing with other dogs all day. They just wanna be with their people."

They gave him fluids and an antinausea shot and told me I could either cook chicken and rice for him for three days or buy bland food from them (which do you think I did?) and $8583829400 later we left. I made a vow to NEVER go anywhere without Edsel ever again. Ever. I don't care if my mother's evil dog EATS Edsel, he's coming with me from now on.

So we were back home, and he had his new jaunty scarf from the vet, and I thought things were okay.

(I emailed Daniel Boone about the whole evening, because it's important I keep up the 93949230 emails to Daniel Boone at all times, and he wrote back and then wrote a P.S. "And Edsel, you don't look at all gay in your scarf.")

By the way, I was reviewing the instructions on how to give him his probiotic and bland food and so forth and in his medical stuff it read, "Teeth: Adult white clean teeth. Underbite." Hello, understatement. It'd be like Kim Kardashian's chart: Adult olive clean butt. Pronounced.

So we went to bed and Edsel got all up on me to cuddle, when


In the middle of the night? TALLULAH started barfing. Oh, she barfed everywhere. She barfed in the dining room. In the back room–twice. In the hall–also twice. On the bedspread. It was a relaxing evening.

So I gave them both the bland food today and I have no clue what is up with them. Could they BOTH have stress colitis from dog daycare? Who feels unbelievably guilty for going to the beach and abandoning her dogs?

Fortunately I have help while I'm at work. "rodgder heer. take care of scarf gay dog."

Friends · June's stupid life · Travel

Love my home-y but where’s my beaches?

You know who I feel sorry for? Is my friend Sandy's husband. Who just wanted a nice week on the Carolina coast, getting away from his demandy-pants job (he took like 87 conference calls while I was there. Do you know where I am rarely needed? Is on a conference call.

In fact recently at work I walked PAST a conference call on my way to make tea, and a Very Important Person said, "June? What are your thoughts?" and I stood there and peed right through my work pants and onto the floor. My THOUGHTS? My thoughts were I might make green tea or perhaps peppermint.

"Oh, we were talking to June on the phone, not you, June," said Very Important Person at work, as he observed me peeing like Edsel and growing an underbite and putting back my tall ears.)

Anyway, Sandy's husband, who Ima call Trojan Horse, is just the nicest person you could ever hope to meet, and let's discuss how Sandy ALWAYS has men who treat her like gold. I mean, this is the first person she actually married, but throughout college and afterwards and so forth, all of her boyfriends were cute, successful and totally, "What can I do for you NOW, Sandy?"

In college, Sandy and I lived in an apartment with her pre-med Rob Lowe-looking boyfriend, who used to get up before she did to make her coffee and scrape the ice off her windshield and warm up her car.

Thirteen years of marriage Marvin never even scraped the ice off my personality. How does she manage to score these men?

Anyway. My POINT is, Trojan Horse, Sandy's husband, was trying to relax and be on the beach and enjoy himself, and he had to be with old Lucy and Ethel, here, giggling and doing EVERYTHING POSSIBLE to stress him out.

When I first got there, I told him he was gonna need a blog name and he said, "Oh, no. Blog names should not be chosen. I should earn it while you're here." So finally at some point during my stay, he was actually getting a word in and telling some story, and he was struggling to find a phrase. "Oh, you know," he said. "It's that thing where something is inside something else."

"A parasite?" Sandy and I both said helpfully. At this point we were just saying the same thing at the same time, having reverted back to being the same person, as we had been in college, except for the part where she is impossibly hot. Yes, STILL.

"No, no," he said, dismissing us and continuing with the story. Then a few minutes later he interrupted himself.

"A TROJAN HORSE! That's the phrase I was looking for earlier."

Sandy and I stared at each other for about .008 seconds before we fell over in hysterics. "In a million years, I'd have never come up with Trojan Horse," I said. "Something that's inside something else. Yes, that says 'Trojan Horse to me," said Sandy, and poor Trojan Horse didn't even get to finish his story.

In other we-are-annoying news, we had been lying on the beach for 79 hours in a row, which was smart of me and my Irish.French.German self and who forgets that she is out there sunning with Armenian Sandy? Is it me? Have I forgotten this since we first laid out together in 1984? Is she always brown as a little toasty tidbit and am I always a bloated red Western European person at the end of every tanning session? Who learns, ever?

So I decided to go inside for a spell and my Pal from MA called me, because it's important that Pal from MA keep me abreast of her every move even when I'm on vacation. Sandy had come up, too, but was going back out, and said to me while I was on the phone, "Bloodey bloo bloo dee bloo key."

"Okay," I said, concentrating on Pal from MA.

When I was going to go back to the water, I thought, gee. I wonder what Sandy said about the key. I looked on the table by the door but only saw the rental car key. I called her on her cell, but she didn't answer. I locked the door and went to the beach.

"I locked the door," I announced proudly.

"And you brought the key, right?"

We stared at each other, horrified, each hoping the other was joking.

Who had to get a WAGON, with WHEELS on it, and scale the balcony of our condo like he was Spiderman? Was it beleaguered Trojan Horse? Who wanted to stick my face in the ocean till I stopped squirming, do you think?

And then do you know what happened? DO you? DO YOU? Poor Trojan went back to the water, probably to swim out his annoyance, and he got STUNG BY A JELLYFISH!


It was probably a jellyfish named June.

He came inside and showed his injury to us. "Can't you die from those?" I asked helpfully. "No, those are man-o-wars," said Sandy. "Or maybe it's Trojan Horses," I said, loving myself. Sandy and I giggled and carried on while Trojan went inside to Google "What to do with a jellyfish sting."

"I'll pee on you!" I called to him.

It was maybe 20 minutes later Sandy and I were talking, on a shocking note, and I said, "Poor Trojan Horse."

"Why?" she said, having already completely forgotten his injury.

Do you know what I should do? Set up a tip jar for Trojan Horse. Not that he needs it. Just because at this point I know you feel as bad for him as I do.

Plus, he had to look at my beach hair the whole time.

One thing we did NOT do to poor Trojan Horse was involve him in the wine shenanigan. Now, let me add the caveat that Sandy is the least alcoholic person on the planet, even though this story is gonna sound like we should get our Ouija Boards and call up Betty Ford.

It was 4:00 p.m. and Sandy said, "I think it's late enough for wine, don't you?"

"Oh, absolutely," I said, ever the enabler. "Let me get you some out the fridge, here."

So I got a bottle of white out, and we worried for a minute there wouldn't be a corckscrew at the condo. There was, but it was one of those very rudimentary ones that had no leverage to it, you just screw and pull. Screw and pull.

Story of my life.

I don't even know what Sandy was doing, although I suspect she was playing with my makeup, as Sandy and I have always been obsessed with each other's makeup and will some day give each other pinkeye and die. Or perhaps Trojan Horse. So there was me, screwing and pulling, screwing and pulling, screwing and pulling, and that DANG CORK would not come out.

"What is going ON over there?" she asked eventually.

Girl. I cannot begin to tell you how bad that cork did not want to come out that bottle. That cork and that bottle were in love. They had made a lifetime commitment. There weren't NUTHIN' gettin' that cork out that DING and also DANG bottle.

Here is an action shot of Sandy, hacking at it with a knife. This was seconds before she said, "You'd better not be photographing this for your blog."

Oh we did everything. We Googled it. We called my mother (not home) (I.am.sure). We called my old boyfriend who owns a brew pub. "The cork is dry," he said. "You know, many good wines these days come with a screw cap; it no longer means it's cheap."

Because that was helpful.

Girl, we were IN it then. We were getting that DANG cork out if it was the last thing we did. And I am happy to report we never once forced Trojan Horse to come in off the beach.

Finally? We managed to shove that in-love cork into the bottle and we strained the wine using the coffee filter. I told Sandy she had better enjoy every.drop. of that wine.

And she did.

Over the course of three nights, because who is a lightweight? "Oh! I've had communion! I have to lie down in the snow! I'm so dizzy!" Who must have been a delightfully cheap date in high school?

So it was a fun trip. It was good to get away from it all. With our cells, our iPhones, our iPads, the TV, my blog comments, and free wi-fi.

It's the simple things that make you happy.




June can't keep a man · June's stupid life

My Date with June

In my absence, two men I have dated recently–Dick Whitman and Daniel Boone–have agreed to guest post about what it was like to date the old June, here. I have the feeling the real answer is: taxing. Here is Dick Whitman's take, with my comments thrown in in pink. Because I can never shut up.

Hello Junophiles, it is me again, Dick Whitman © 2007 Lion's Gate Television. Today’s topic is June and what kind of date she is. June loves participles that dangle and spurs that jingle jangle. I was tempted to do an off-color joke about June and certain other dangling appendages, but I took the high road because that’s how I roll.

My marriage came crashing down around my feet at roughly the same time that June gave Marvin his walking papers [Technically, Marvin gave himself his own walking papers, but who am I to quibble?]. I didn’t know her then and it’s a good thing too because all my sobbing and blubbering wouldn’t fit with my world-class hunk m.o. All I can say is how happy I was to find such a stable, always appropriate person to help me rebuild my shattered ego. [Is he calling me unstable and inappropriate? hmph!]

Contact was initiated thru various channels, photographs were exchanged, and interests were piqued. Our email correspondence was rich with June's charming, vivacious, and self-deprecating wit. A date was set and I nervously awaited her arrival at a downtown tavern. She walked in, preceded by her aura of curly blonde wonderfulness. I stood and extended my hand in greeting, only to have it shoved aside as she embraced me saying “I'm from California, we're huggers out there!” [Yes. I DO hate hugging. Y’all. He was hot. He’s lucky I didn’t just lure him into my back seat right then and there.] [Hi, Dick Whitman’s mom.] What a relief that the potentially awkward greeting wasn’t and that I could relax, safe in the assurance that our “Goodnight” would at least be more fun than a handshake. [Who thought he was gettin’ some? Was it smug Dick Whiman? Who did not? Was it smug, disappointed Dick Whitman?]

First impression, after seeing several photos of June, was that none of them did her justice. In some of her photos there is a slight hardness around her nose [what?!] and under her eyes [1-800-plastic-surgeon-stat.]. This isn’t her at all but a result of harsh and raking light in these photos. I speak with some authority here because I am, believe it or not, a professional photographer. She has lovely, dancing eyes, a slender young face, and—surprise surprise—a lively, active mouth. All this set under a halo of golden curls.

I believe it was on this first outing that she informed me that I was in the presence of an internet celebrity [tens of readers!]. I was impressed and, as someone who doesn't read blogs, intrigued. I offered her something to drink, then caught myself because of her previously expressed disinterest in spirits. “No alcohol needed. I have no inhibitions,” she said, and I felt like a guy who just might get to second base. [He didn’t.]

We drank and laughed and poked at some forgotten appetizer… Food held no interest due for me due to my initial anxiety and the fact that I was having such a great time. As the evening progressed, all anxiety melted away and I felt happy and comfortable with my new friend. Just before we said goodbye, June pulled out her trusty camera and photographed that neglected appetizer, saying, “My readers will want to see this.” I walked her to her car and as I hugged her goodnight, I felt a hand greedily grabbing my ass and the heard the words “Good meat” whispered in my ear. [He completely made that part up.]

So, without a doubt, the answer to what kind of date she is (sorry June, I couldn't resist!) is: Pretty great. [I'd say more but I'm getting the harshness under my nose fixed.]

Family · June's stupid life

My Cousin Katie (or, June keeps saying she won’t be here and yet here she is again)

So, I was getting all ready to leave for the beach, and by the way there is a thunderstorm right now and this is so the story of my life, when I realized it's my cousin Katie's birthday.


I have done NOTHING for her birthday. Nothing.

Dudes. When did I get so scattered? I am not this person. I am good about birthdays. I've had a lot on my mind this week, and those of you who are members of Pie on the Face on Facebook have the inside guff on THAT, but still.


So I thought I'd get on here and write a little something for my cousin Katie. Who has never done anything mean to me in her life. Like, for example, forget all about my birthday. Which I did not technically FORGET, but look at this week on my calendar:

See the 9th through the 14th? See how there is someone every day? See how there are people having birthdays TWELVE DAYS in August? August is my Christmas. So I KNEW it was her birthday and I kept thinking, "Oh, yeah, I gotta get Katie something" and then I'd look at a dust moat or something.

So Katie, here is your gift. I am blogging about you. Just as good as new earrings, right?

My cousin Katie was born 12 years after me at a time when everything was dark and we had no facial features (and yes that IS my large adolescent feathered hair), and personally I was annoyed. I was an only grandchild on one side of the family, and on the other side, I had been the only LOCAL grandchild for 11 years. My cousin Jimmy had been born the year before, and although it's true you have never seen a cuter baby in your life, going to gramma's was clearly not the same after he was born. There was CRYING and COOING and some little toy that played Three Blind Mice over and over again until I wanted to stick blind mice in my head to chew out my eardrums.

People suggested I was jealous of the lack of attention, but I have never wanted for attention. I was still ONLY GRANDCHILD on the other side, and I could always drum up the spotlight if need be. Really, it was just the whole having-a-baby-around thing that grated.

So when Katie was born, I was all, Oh, man. Is this ever gonna end, with my aunts popping out the babies?

And by the way no it didn't. Between 1975 and 1981, my two aunts had five babies between them. Someone was always knocked up.

But once Katie, you know, wasn't a blobby baby, there was something about her I took to. Maybe it was the blonde curls. Maybe it was the part where she worshipped me. Maybe my nude Candies accented by the nude hose warped my perception.

Everything I did, Katie thought was cool. She was forever sneaking my makeup (and at the time I was only buying myself Chanel makeup. Because I was worth it. How did I afford Chanel makeup as a 19-year-old? I believe the power of the Hudson's credit card is how I afforded it) and slipping on my neon bracelets and trying to capture the hep that was June in the '80s. And really, who could get a grip on that mercury?

Here we are wearing matching snoods at Christmas. I know we're at my mother's because of the peace sign on the tree. Also, that ridiculous star is left over from my first apartment. I had Katie and her sister Maria come help me decorate the tree, and they made me that star. My mother is the kind of person who puts hideous homemade things on her tree. In fact, can you see the terrible peach-and-pearl ornament nestled down there between Katie and me and our snug-fitting sweaters? I made that in Girl Scouts in 1973 and she STILL puts it on the tree every year. The peach? Is VELVET.

A peach velvet ornament with pearl accents. See. This is why I did not have kids. I'd have been all, "Yeah. Not on MY tree, Minnie Pearl."

Anyway. Katie followed me around like she was Edsel for many years, until one day we were at the same family gathering and I realized, "Wow. Katie's hot." She was in high school then, and had a boyfriend, and was all pretty, and I realized she didn't worship me any longer. She didn't need to. She had way outcooled me.

Which is why I'm showing you this shot of Katie in her pale mom jeans at my college graduation. Hey, I have on POLKA DOTS. I wasn't much better. But trust me. She was hot.

After I moved away to Seattle and then LA, I would come back for visits and always make sure to see Katie. Once we drove to Ann Arbor for the day, which is where the University of Michigan is and it's a cool town. We had lunch at this outdoor cafe, and it really looked like rain.

"Let's stay out here no matter what the weather does," said Katie. So the poor waiter had to dash out there in the thunder and lightening while we ate under a lightening-rod umbrella, our napkins flying down the street dramatically.

Katie came to visit me in Seattle and one of the rickshaw drivers downtown gave us a free ride through the streets because she was so cute. Four years I lived there and didn't no one offer ME a free ride anywhere. For weeks after she left she was getting calls from boys. She must have given my number out like mints.

I took her to the top of the Space Needle on that visit, and some guy somewhere has a home movie of two curly blondes desperately trying to push their long skirts down as the wind whipped up that needle. Our skirts blew up so high that we both just sat on the ground, finally, in hysterics.

We were up on that needle when we noticed little arrows with letters like E, W, N. "Why on earth did they think they had to point out the mountain?" I groused, noticing the letters MN pointing toward Mt. Rainer. "I mean, we can SEE it. It's a mountain."

It took us about 15 minutes to figure out the letters were NW, and we were looking at them upside-down, and they meant "northwest" and not "mountain." Maybe we have bonded because we're complete idiots.

Katie also visited me in Los Angeles once she was a grownup and married and such.

At one point, we were on the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier. I forget why we even wondered this, but there we were, up on the Ferris wheel, and we wondered what direction we were facing.

"If we just had some kind of landmark to help us," Katie said.

You guys. We were hovering over the Pacific Ocean.

So now Katie is 34, and the difference in our ages doesn't seem so dramatic. It's like we're old friends and not cousins. She is frugal while I am spendy. She is earthy while I am ethereal. She is handy while I am a mess. She hovers over the Pacific Ocean and has no idea what direction we are facing and I think "NW" means mountain. Together we are quite a pair.

So happy birthday, Katie. I am glad you were born. You are a cousin, you are a confidante, you are a good friend.

And I forgive you for the 9394 smushed Chanel lipsticks.

Katie & me

June's stupid life · Marvin · My pets

It happened one night

I am at the beach, being a 10, so here is a post from before for you to enjoy. Do not get confused. Marvin and I did not reunite. Henry did not move back. Oh, dear. Why'd I have to pick such a confusing post to post? Could I say "post" more often? Oh, and Target Steve is comment of the week. Raise your glass of Postum and poast to him.

Oh! (How annoying am I?) Don't forget to come back tomorrow, as Dick Whitman has written an "I Dated June" post and then on Monday, Daniel Boone has written an "I Also Dated June" post. I asked Marvin to write an "I Married June" post but he would not. hmph.


Had I slept on a grate inside Grand Central Station, I'd have gotten more sleep last night.

It started with, "BEEP!" …. "BEEP!" …. "BEEP!"

I had been dreaming that I was on a road trip with my gramma and all her sisters, and how fun would that have been except for the part where I'd have been Bensen & Hedges'd out of the car, when that "BEEP!" woke me up.

I knew it was one of our 3048533aswoer#@0420 alarms. I like how that number just became a link. Do you think it really links to anything? Aren't the people over at 3048533aswoer#@0420 gonna be surprised when we all pop over this morning.

Anyway. We have smoke alarms. And bad weather alarms. There-is-a-bad-person-breaking-in alarms. Carbon monoxide alarms. Someone-is-staring-at-you-in-Personal-Growth alarms. I mean, you name a situation, we have an alarm for it. We even have an alarm should The Situation show up.


I knew this meant something was alarming us, but did I know which one or how to turn it off? And did I have two dogs and a cat on me?

And guess who was sawing logs contentedly, because he cannot hear anything high-pitched thanks to the 87,000 concerts he attended and was a part of in his lifetime? I swear he did it on purpose so he never has to let the dog in (can't hear him whining) or notice alarms. Which begs the question, WHY HAVE THEM?

"Muffin," I said. Tallulah shifted and sighed.

"MUFFIN," I tried again.


"Saw," said Marvin, contentedly.

"MUFFINMUFFINMUFFINMUFFIN!" I yelled, as Tallulah leapt off me, startled.

Eventually Marvin woke up and said it was the carbon monoxide alarm, leaving me to wonder why we all hadn't woken up dead. Turns out it was low on batteries. Really? It couldn't have waited to tell us when it wasn't 3:00 a.m.?

I finally fell back asleep, only to notice Tallulah burrowing closer and closer to me, and smacking her lips, and groaning a little, which only meant one thing.

"Do you have to barf, Lu?" I asked, half asleep. Marvin was back to his saw and his log.

I let her out and she stayed out quite a while, then I let her back in and was just drifting off when I heard,


and she barfed on the floor.

Which led Edsel to wake up and investigate the one blade of grass Tallulah had managed to chuck.

We all slumped back to bed and I was just back on my roadtrip with gramma when


Henry was barfing. And it was not your usual heave-a-few-times-and-hork cat barfing. It was like he had an alien up inside there. He was being turned inside out.

He is on antibiotics, and I am thinking perhaps they did not agree with him. Either that or he and Talu have some kind of virus that KEEPS HUMANS AWAKE till all hours.

I hate everything.

I thought about pushing my three dog nights (two dogs and a cat night) off me and going to him, but do YOU want someone bugging you when you are barfing? No. Poor Henry. I knew it was he because he'd do this horrible meow between barfs.

And then? Are you sitting down? Are you?

Marvin made his move.

It's like he says to himself, "Wow. She could not be more repulsed and irritated right now. Time to try my move!"

Fortunately my screams of anger were too high-pitched for him to hear.


June's stupid life

On dating June. By D Boone.

In my absence, I have asked two men I have recently dated–Dick Whitman and Daniel Boone–to guest post about what it was like to date me. Here is Daniel Boone's exhaustive dissertation. My comments are in brackets.

When June first invited me to guest blog I was both thrilled and honored. Then I remembered that I'm likely the most despised man ever to have been mentioned on ByeByePie [clearly he has never heard of Marvin]. I mean other than when June shamelessly begged for someone to buy her those tacky Osama Bin Laden PJs. So I began to suspect a trap.

And it is a trap of sorts, albeit completely unintentional. June's invitation to me is roughly the equivalent of asking a slice of bologna to stand in for a thick juicy rib-eye (sorry, it's getting close to lunchtime). My fleeting vision of Johnny Carson having Jay Leno guest host and ultimately passing him the reins of the Tonight Show (yes, I would change my name to June if I could but wear the Golden Fleece on my head) melted into stage fright. I found myself with the first writing assignment I've had since college and writer's block of mythic proportions.

I am no June Gardens. I'm not fit to mow her lawn or even trim her bush [oh, DB, did you have to go there?]! I'm a fraud. Oh, and I'm the man you all hate, so the first 15 comments on this blog post will likely be enough to cause me to spontaneously combust!

But I do have one edge, one ace up my sleeve. After all, none of you have ever gone on a date with June Gardens! I have and I lived to tell about it so read on. [Actually, about five exes read this blog, but go ahead…]

The scene opens on a hot summer day in North Carolina with yours truly standing close enough to a 25 foot tall “replica” of Daniel Boone that, should his impressively under-engineered guy wires fail, I will almost certainly make it into the newspaper. I did mention it's hot, North Carolina hot? I'm sweating. The folks smoking cigarettes in front of the seedy motel nearby are sweating. Everyone and everything is sweating. It's as if the whole state is on a first date and flop sweat is setting in with a vengeance.

June pulls up in her lemon yellow VW and she, with her bounty of yellow hair, emerges like pollen blown off a dandelion. She's vivaciously happy to meet me as I am her. We're a bit awkward, I'm sure, but we don't know each other so it's hard to judge whether one or both of us is acting like a fool. I mean more like a fool than usual. [Now that we know each other? We were pretty much the fools we always are.]

Probably the first thing that strikes you about June is that what she does is not blogging about her life but rather living a blog. It's a near constant stream of slightly askew observations on her neuroses, her fascinating history, and her menagerie of pets all delivered in clever little posts that emerge like fully formed pearls from an entire bed of oysters living in the effluence of a nuclear power plant.

There's the observation that all Asian women have the best hair ever except Yoko Ono, who has not only managed to monetize everything John Lennon created (stopping just short of his used Kleenex) but also has hair that even rats refuse to inhabit. All of this of course is related back, in detail, to June's own golden locks.

At some point the amazing fact that June has not vomited since 1982 is delivered with a mixture of pride and amazement as if the Guinness folks are typesetting the copy right now. You wonder if anything you do will break the winning streak as you discreetly inch away.

At some point lunch is suggested and you order a seafood salad and a bloody mary to strengthen yourself. June, as only June could, orders fried pickles. For those of you from the civilized corners of this nation, North Carolinians will batter and fry anything, pickles likely being one of the saner choices, trust me. But who, I do ask, who orders nothing but fried pickles for lunch? [Me.]

June comments on how your salad contains shrimp and cilantro—two foods she simply detests. Your interest in your salad wanes a bit so you sip your “sure, make it spicy” bloody mary only to realize that one can actually fry a beverage here in the Great North State. It's not so much that the tabasco and turpentine used to make the drink burn, it's more that each sip causes its own wave of anaphylactic shock. No worries, June doesn't notice the pained expression as she's stealing the avocados from the salad—the ones furthest from the shrimp and cilantro sprigs. [I noticed. What'd you want me to do, stab you with the Epi-Pen I carry? Yes, I do carry one. You never know.]

After lunch you wander in a graveyard (Daniel Boone knows how to show a girl a good time on a first date!) which lets June wax poetic about the death of relatives and pets and the unthinkable demise of herself. The boneyard is an old one so there're lots babies who have died—it sets a nice mood for the date.

After that you wander through the quaint neighborhoods with the overhanging shade trees and June tells you real live ghosts stories that she's really lived. You wonder vaguely when she'll recount her heavier periods and gynecological exams—June is not into filtering, she's eager to share it all. [If you had asked, I gladly would have told. Before I had those fibroids removed in March, it was Red River Valley over here. Oh. Okay, keep talking…]

You end up down by the river. It's cooler here by the water. You both take off your shoes and wade in the cesspool water wondering how long it takes the nastier parasites to burrow through your pruning foot flesh. June is daring—she is risking flukes to appear lighthearted and gaily girlish.[Actually, flukes hadn't occured to me. They will now…]

June forgets waterborne illness for a bit to obsess about snakes. There are snakes here—I mean in the sense of North Carolina “here”—no representatives are within sight in or near the river. You tell June about stepping on a copperhead once and she cringes approvingly. You sit on a rock and check for bore-holes in your flesh and hands are held and there might even be a kiss more befitting a couple of inexperienced kids than two middle-aged folks with pruned feet that make it look like there's been a small fish kill on the river. [That kiss was FINE. You are obsessed with that kiss. There was nothing WRONG with it. We were in the WATER, for god's sake. What did you want, a Blue Lagoon moment?]

And then it's over. Your date with June ends as you watch her drive away with her leftover fried pickles and the first symptoms of river blindness. It's only later that you hurt June's feelings in a vain and supremely ironic effort to protect those same feelings. The real Daniel Boone would be proud of me—I'm sure he could no more charm the ladies or consider their emotions than he could bathe on a regular basis.

So now let the hating begin. June, please do come home—you are missed. [Oh, Daniel Boone. I do forgive you your transgression and kind of love you to bits, in a platonic get-over-that-kiss-already kind of a way. You and the Whitman were totally worth my $30 to match.com]


Friends · June's stupid life

These Friends of Mine, or June

And yet? I can never find my reading glasses when I need them. I need to have 600 more pair, because there are NEVER ANY IN MY PURSE when I'm out somewhere.

And speaking of my glasses, the other day my Pal from MA called me, and by the way this story has absolutely nothing to do with glasses. I was just trying to segue into a new topic.

So I was driving in my car, and no I am not The Pointer Sisters, and Pal from MA was telling me a story. "Turn left," my GPS would say as she talked, or "Take the motorway." 

"What IS that?" Pal from MA groused, annoyed at being interrupted.

"It's my GPS. I have it tuned to be a British voice so it's like Barry Gibb is in the car with me, giving me driving directions," I said.

"Oh, as he's wont to do," said Pal. "You always find Barry Gibb in a VW Bug, telling someone where to go."

"Grab my medallion and keep left!" I said Britishly.

"Keep left," parroted my GPS.

"I HATE THAT THING!" screeched Pal from MA, who has always had the ability to get screechy from out of nowhere.

After about the 86th British instruction from Auto Barry, Pal said we were gonna take a road trip together to the Grand Canyon, get out of the car, throw that GPS over the edge, and drive back home.

"Except we won't know how to GET home," I pointed out.

Anyway, we decided to invent GPSes that only speak in super-annoying voices. Like Fran Drescher's or Rosie Perez's.


Or it could talk like Alicia, my old cleaning lady. "Mija! What kind of geeeeenius doesn't turn left in 800 yards? I call the police on your ASS, mija, you don't turn left."

Every story from Alicia involved her calling the police on some ass somewhere. Also, she was forever yelling at me about things she had to clean in my house. "What kind of GENIUS leaves a coffee cup of the wooden table, mija!?"

So that is my invention with Pal, and if you steal it it is now OFFICIALLY LISTED ON MY BLOG and I will sue you. And call the police on your ASS.


In other news, last night I was all excited because I had a date with Chatting at the Sky. We were going out for frozen custard together. But then she texted me and stood me up, and I thought about getting frozen custard by myself but it seemed pathetic somehow. We are going next week. I have custard anticipation. I have general custard anticipation.

Sometimes I love myself so much it hurts.

And tonight, as if my life could get any more exciting than a potential frozen custard date, I am going to partayyy with my friends Marty Martin and his girlfriend Kaye. With an "e."

A few days ago he emailed me. "Kaye and I found a great lounge kind of place that is totally cheesy and plays disco music. We're going back on Friday. It's awful there. You in?"

"Of COURSE I'm in!" I said, already anticipating how I Will Survive at the YMCA with my Groove Thing. Yeah yeah.

Then Marty looked it up yesterday and saw it's closed for "renovations." "Which means they probably will fix it up and it won't be a cheesy disco anymore," said Marty.

Why do people have to ruin EVERYTHING?

So they have invited me over to eat bad food and watch a movie instead. Then I suggested we all wear our pajamas and they were down with that. Marty, Kaye and me? Cool. Cool on a Friday night, is what we are.

Then after that, I am sorry to tell you you will be Juneless for a few days, as I am GOING TO THE BEACH. I know! My college roommate Sandy invited me, and going with her will be like bringing Sandy to the beach.


June's blog. Where you come for…why the hell DO you come here?

Anyway, we are thinking of replacing all the furniture in the condo she rented with wooden milk crates, so we feel more at home with each other. Also we are totally making microwave cake like we used to.

So the point is, I do have some exciting posts coming up for you. Believe it or not I have convinced Dick Whitman and Daniel Boone to each write an "I Dated June" post. And here is so how they are:

Daniel Boone was all, "Oh absolutely! I would love to!" and he hasn't written his yet.

Dick Whitman said, "Hmmm. I don't know" then eight seconds later he had written his and has contacted me 16 times to go over his typos.

So that's something to look forward to, the I Dated June from the Goofus and Gallant perspectives, and perhaps I'll dredge out some old post that I think is funny, but I promise this time it won't be my 10-grade-diary post which clearly I cannot get over.

Okay, come on. That 10-grade-diary post was the BOMB.

Talk at you. Talk at you after I get the sand out my nethers.