I hate everything · June's stupid life

Inflated lips, more yodeling pickles, a dumb year

Yay. I'm glad 39495940303 of you so far are in on the doing-good-deeds-in-December thing. Remember, you have till midnight tonight to tell me you are in.

DO NOT TELL ME YOU ARE IN ON THIS POST, THOUGH! Tell me on YESTERDAY'S post. I have to pair you up with people and do not wish to toggle back and forth through two sets of comments and have my own good deed end up being the part where I do not kill you all.

And whoever said I had a hissy fit last year can just go to Halifax. I may have had a slight moment of crankiness last year. A HISSY fit. Hmph!

In other news about why I am Stretch Armstrong at the moment and could burst into tears like Taylor on the Real Housewives–who I actually am liking more and more and perhaps I am alone on this, but I feel like she's trying to be as honest as possible and that jaded phony crowd cannot fathom such a thing–today is the last day of my statistics textbook freelance work. It is due tonight. And guess what. GUESS WHAT?

Last night at NINE-THIRTY I get an email from the statistics textbook company. This happens all the time.

Dear June, they said.

Here is some new work. It takes priority over what you are currently doing, so blow off that book you were gonna finish, that was dangling like a shiny golden carrot of doneness. Blow off the carrot, June, and read this thing first, so that you will have EVEN MORE NIGHTS of working all day then dashing home to work all night.

Love, The Textbook Company.

Oh, booo hooo hoooo hooo hoooo. My large inflated lips are quivering.

At least I will be rich. Ish. More yodeling pickles for everyone!

What if I sent yodeling pickles to everyone on my Christmas list? And nothing else? I wonder what everyone would do?

Wow. That divorce she seemed to be handling has really done her in.

I must go get ready for my actual real job. It was a year ago today I got laid off from my last actual real job. I was thinking yesterday that this past year, from getting laid off through having surgery and Marvin leaving and Tallulah getting hit by a car and Winston running away and Daniel Boone breaking my heart and having no money now and getting shingles, this year has


So maybe starting today this will be a better year. Because it all began last November 30 and I had no clue it was on its way.

Watch. I'll walk out the front door today and a tree will fall on my head.


Giveaway · June's stupid life · My pets

A post about my cats. Surprise!

I've been waiting to tell you this until it was for sure going well, but Anderson Cooper doesn't live here anymore.

I know!

Marvin was saying that he was going to get another cat, because Henry was sad and meowing and bored, and he was even considering licking Henry himself, because that's what Winston used to do. I suggested this might be crossing the I-heart-cats threshold.

I thought about it and offered him Anderson. I thought if I got kittens, they'd grow up okay around dogs, and certainly that's been the case with Roger, who splays on top of the dogs to sleep, and leaps up onto Edsel's head and stays there just for yucks and so forth. But Anderson was always scared of them, and whenever he walked across the room, the stupid dogs would chase his delicate self.

You always found Anderson hunkered up high on something.

"I think he'd be happier with just a cat friend," I said. "I LOVE Anderson!" said Marvin.

Can I just tell you that when I met Marvin he was unfamiliar with cats, and all awkward around them, and I consider it a personal victory that I have turned him into a cat-loving girly man?

Anyway, Marvin got him over a week ago and I am happy to report that Anderson is so happy. He and Henry are playing and running around and Anderson gets to actually run across the floor and there was only one hiss out of Henry initially.

I didn't mean to put this picture in, but you can see how deeply concerned Roger is about losing a brother.

Photo on 11-20-11 at 4.22 PM #2
Here's the picture I meant to put in. I will miss my little gay cat. But I think I did the right thing by him. "I'll try not to lose this one," Marvin said.

While we're on the subject of my cats, and hi, Hulk, we have a winnah! in the photo caption contest.

"rodger in junk drawer. rodger wish he still had junk. in his drawers."

Yes, Faithful Reader Funny in my Mind was funny outside of her mind. Send me your address, FIMM! You get the yodeling pickle! Christmas has come early.

An honorary pickle goes to the disqualified-before-the-contest-began Paula, because we all knew she'd be effing hilarious. She came up with about 47 captions, including:

"Oh, Miss Gardens, thank you for coming in. I have the results of your cat scan right here."

"I hate this desk job."

"Do these drawers make me look fat?"

"Man. Pete Campbell's office IS cramped." (That's only funny if you like Mad Men, WHICH YOU SHOULD.)

"NOBODY puts Roger in a drawer."

Paula. Killing all of us since whenever the hell she found this blog.

I must go, but before I do, let's start the good deeds thing. Because I don't still have your photo project to do and a statistics textbook deadline and this house doesn't look like Sanford & Son's house or anything.

Every year I like to do this on my blog to make myself break out in hives–too late! But it's a nice thing to do and we all end up liking it, except for Jan and Steve.

We pair up with each other cyberly and do good deeds for December. So all you have to do is write in the comments: "I'm in!" and then I will at a later date (maybe Friday?) pair you up with your good-deeds partner. So please be "in" by Wednesday at midnight.

And the good deed should be generally free or very low-cost. Open the door for someone whose arms are full of packages. Put quarters in all the parking meters down a street. Anonymously leave cookies for your old-lady neighbor. Whatever. Nothing huge, nothing fussy. Just come back here before Christmas and let us know in the comments what your good deed is, and your partner will return the favor with a good deed of his or her own.

Who is in?

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

June torments Tall Boy and has a giveaway (No, I am not giving away Tall Boy) (That would be funny, though)

Last night, I had Thai food with the Tall Boy. Who is delighted to have her phone back, do you think?

Anyway, Tall Boy is a vegetarian, and I wish I could be one because I love me the animals but also they are so darn delicious. My point is, it seems like it must be a pain in the arse to be a vegetarian. "I'll have the spring rolls, but without shrimp."

"You want chicken in the spring roll?"

"No! NO! Not chicken. Just no shrimp."

It's like the whole world is a meat obstacle course. Anyway, my cashew chicken came, because I'm sensitive that way (I asked if he'd mind if I had them kill it right at the table) and Tall Boy said, "What's that on your plate? Is that a big mushroom? It looks good."

"That is a piece of CHICKEN," I said. "Would you like to try it?"

"Yeah. I really do. I am meat-curious," said Tall Boy, with the enthusiasm of Kristen Stewart.

My point is, because he did not help me eat it, I had leftovers, so I put them in Tall Boy's refrigerator, where I have never looked before. It was a monumental night. I saw Tall Boy's fridge.

Is it just me, or is this a tidy refrigerator? I mean, for a boy. The little stacks of Tupperware, how the butter is right next to the bread. I don't know. Maybe it IS just me.

Look how the garlic sit in their own slot. It's disturbing, yet kind of reassuring. Maybe I am just used to slobbeldy Marvin, who would have the milk way back so you have to knock everything else over to get it, and the garlic would be rotting on the counter. That's what I'm used to.

At any rate, who was completely over me and my cell phone by the night's end? "Oooo! Can I take a picture of this? You want to see this app?" I am a fun date.  Really in the moment.

In other news, I got a gift yesterday from Faithful Reader Texas Kari. She felt bad because she told me she was the woman who looked at me on OK Cupid, which lead me to send said woman a rather forward message, when in fact Texas Kari was lying through her Texan teeth.

But look! Here's Topol, the smoker's tooth polish! Do you remember that commercial? What is wrong with me? Compile a list.

What I WANTED to say was, look! Look how cute her little package was, with the tissue and lace and the little tag. Am so stealing this idea.

(It was because she had a cute package that I tried to pick her up on OK Cupid. Whooooo-hahhhh!)

IMG_0022"edzul not like dis ideeya. not madogga."

IMG_0021She sent me vintage Christmas kitty pillowcases!!!!!!

Who better to receive such a thing? Hmmm? WHO BETTER? Love them. Thanks, Texas Kari. And it all worked out. That woman on OK Cupid and I have had a few dates and am working up nerve to kiss her. (It was actually another faithful reader who looked at me that day. She emailed me on OK Cupid to tell me. In case anyone wonders, she and I have 84% compatibility on OK Cupid and we really should give things a try.) (Apparently I am meat-curious today, too.)

I must go, as I am in statistics-book-proofreading hell, which explains why I went gallivanting around to Thai restaurants all night, but before I go, we are gonna have a little contest here at Bye Bye, Pie.

Whoever comes up with the best caption for this wins a yodeling pickle. You must think of it by midnight tonight–whenever that is for you. I'm just saying when I get up tomorrow time is up.

Should we just disqualify Paula H&B right away, because she is funnier than all of us put together?

I know you do not want to miss out on winning THIS. I wish my pickles wore leiderhosen. What gives? Also, my pickles are more whiskey connoisseurs.

Here is the photo again.

It's just like Reader's Digest or something, isn't it? Good luck! Good luck winning that yodeling pickle, which I won't take 700 years to finally send you or anything.

Friends · June's stupid life · Religion


Yesterday I had brunch with Dick Whitman's mom. It was very pleasant to meet her.

Oh please. I LOVED HER!!! Wait. More exclamation points are needed! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I knew she'd be the bomb.

Mom and June2Every story Dick Whitman ever told me about his mom, I would listen and then say, "I love your mom." I think I said that from the first story. And we share a birthday. And she Facebook Likes all the pictures I have of cats. AND SHE READS MY BLOG.

What's not to like?

But then I got there and she was even better than I had imagined. Oh, she was charming, she was hilarious, she was thoughtful about the predicament Dick Whitman and I are in, with our new singlehood and all.

At one point, Dick Whitman mentioned my dogs for some reason. "She has one dog, Tallulah, who's a little wild."

I was about to yell at him when Dick Whitman's mom said, "No. Tallulah is the calm one. Edsel is crazy. I know more about her dogs than YOU do, and I've never been there."

Seriously. How could you get Tallulah and Edsel confused? I think Dick Whitman is indifferent to dogs. YOU'RE INDIFFERENT TO DOGS, DW!

She talked about how she tried not to interfere in her kids' lives, and how she was worried meeting me would count as interfering. How cool is she?

Anyway, I could have stayed there all day, talking about Dick Whitman's ear infections that he got as a kid, and which old movie stars we liked and who was stupid, and how chickens don't taste right now that they're pumped full of hormones and kept in a cage.

June BOCAnd there was an Art-O-Mat at the restaurant! Y'all know how I always have to put my $5 in there, and no I DON'T know why my savings account has $9.48 in it. What do you mean?

Art-O-Mats are old cigarette machines that some genius, meja, decided to turn into a vending machine for teensy works of art. So artists from all over, including my friend Charlie with the orange hair–who by the way now has a girlfriend with pink hair and thank heavens he went back to brown hair, because that combo makes me queasy just thinking about it–put their art in these machines.

Yesterday I got a teensy patron saint–It was St. Zzzzzz, for a good night's sleep. I need that. When you sleep with the entire animal kingdom, not to mention occasionally King Don, you don't always get your rest.


As if meeting Dick Whitman's mom weren't good enough, I got home and decided to pay bills, because they'd all been languishing on my secretary gathering cobwebs. I don't know why King Don doesn't just pay my bills. Shouldn't he be wealthy?

Anyway, I decided to check my bank balance before I went around paying bills all willy-nilly, and I had a TON more in there than I thought. This is because Google Ads just deposits money right in there, and no one had said, "Hey, June, you got paid for your ads!"

I could not even stand the temptation. I sat here and debated for awhile and finally called the Tall Boy. "I have surprise money. Should I go stampeding to the Apple store and get another iPhone?" I think I have whined about having no iPhone a mere 49493002202 times to Tall Boy.

"Yes," he said, sounding weary. "If I found out I had extra money, that's certainly what I'd do." Tall Boy is not what you'd call up on technological advances. In order to email him, I have to send a Pterodactyl over there to crank up his internet. He's, like, the only boy I know who isn't into all that crap. It is kind of refreshing.

So who went over to the Apple store on African American Friday, as Hulk calls it? Who is an idiot? I mean, other than Hulk. Dudes, there was a LINE, with a ROPE, like we were all trying to get into Studio 54, and will somebody PLEASE give me a club that has happened since 1977 so I come up with a better example next time this comes up?

I was behind a very cranky techno nerd who kept glaring at me when my purse touched him, and I'm SORRY I am not a motionless blowup doll like you're used to, and I was in front of two Asian girls who had some sort of cultural idea of personal space that differed from mine. Can only hope I gave them my shingles.

The point is…

Photo on 11-26-11 at 8.29 AMyay!

And I got the cheap old 3G, and that's all I need. Girlfriend's ad revenue isn't DOOCE good. But oh! How I played with it and tormented Tall Boy with photos of my car and my pets Petzand more of my pets and who wishes he'd said I should invest that money in bonds or something?

Do you enjoy my gray robe and t-shirt from The Turkey Roost, which is only the best restaurant in Michigan? If you are in Michigan right now, get in the car and drive to Kawkawlin. You will not be sorry. Try not to picture my I-just-got-up hair when you are eating.

Oh! And Dick Whitman's mom said I have to stop complaining about my hair, as she thinks it's lovely. "You don't think it looks like George Washington?" I asked her. She paused, realizing it totally does. "Well. Now you're just looking for flaws."

June2 and Mom-1

So there it is. Would totally marry Dick Whitman to get to his mom. We could each date whomever we wanted, and he could continue to think Tallulah is Edsel. Sounds promising!

I'll email you the wedding photos from my iPhone.

Food and Drink · Friends · June's stupid life

The post-Thanksgiving report

Yesterday I had turkey. You?

I joined my friend Laurie, who is a capable adult, and please note the part where I tend to hang around capable adults. However, THAT TURKEY WAS MADE BY ME. And purchased by me. With a little help from a lesbian.

And dear lesbian readers, am I offensive when I make these jokes? I hope not. Please come slap me with your lesbian livers if I am.

CarrotAs usual, I was helpful and mature in the kitchen, and not at all such a pain in the arse that you just wanted me out of there.

ForkThis, of course, is not a skill I have crafted over the years or anything. "Hah haa! Okay, June. Now real work has to commence. Go watch TV."

In my own way, I am a genius.

CherriesLaurie, being an actual real photographer, and note how I find THOSE to hang around with, too, with my narcissistic self, told me to go outside so she could photograph me, and we discussed how I am a lovely friend because I do not do the annoying, "Oh! I HATE pictures of myself!" thing.

Dear people who say that: Get over yourselves. We all have to look at you all the time. If you hate seeing a picture of you, just don't look. Let us snap the damn photo and move on. Or I'll have all the lesbians come slap you with their livers.

Speaking of livers, Laurie asked, "Will it bother you if I have a glass of wine?" and I never want people to feel like they can't go ahead and drink in front of me. I mean, watching people get DRUNK is annoying, but normal drinkers are fine for me.

Except OH MY GOD she is such a normal drinker. She poured that ding-dang glass of wine and TWO HOURS LATER there was still some in the glass. And she'd leave it over across the room, forgetting about it, whereas I would have duct-taped it to my hand. Finally, I said, "Are you EVER gonna drink the rest of that wine?"

Not that I was obsessed with it or anything.

Laurie, when she wasn't ignoring perfectly good alcohol, and talk about your alcohol abuse, noted that my Latisse is really kicking in. Hello, lashes! I used to use the blackest of black mascara and I'm starting to think I should move on to brown-black so I don't look so harsh. I mean, you used to never be able to SEE my eyelashes before this.

Straight male readers…?

I know how we can get them back. PILLSBURY PENIS ROLLS!

It was my job to roll the crescent rolls, and folks, what the hell is wrong with me? Why can I not roll them in the nice crescent shape? That one in the middle looks exactly like when Edsel has the lipstick out. I'm sorry but it does. The rest are like Vermicious Knids. What the Sam Hill? Can anyone identify what I do WRONG, because this is not the first time I have made this tactical error.

KnivesDespite this, Laurie trusted me with sharp implements, although note she only let me play with the end of a carrot. And if you're thinking my little cherry barrette is cute, I used to, too, and this morning I got up and Edsel had eaten it.

Finally it was time to eat, and I got a glass of traditional Thanksgiving urine and we were set to go. I said, "Let's not eat like my dogs, where they stare down at their bowl and consume everything in sight then look up for more after they've licked the plastic. Let's enjoy this."

Eight minutes later, we looked up from our empty plates for more.

Oh! We were stuffed. We were not even able to have dessert, so later this weekend Laurie is coming to have pie with June of the Pie.

Afterwards, I said, "Let me help clean up" with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth, and Laurie said, "No, I got it" and I said "NO NO, let me help" as I got my coat and she said, "Really. I've got it." Please note that DAMN GLASS OF WINE that she never finished.

Anyway, it was a lovely THANKSgiving, as they say here, and I was grateful to have Laurie to spend it with me. Mostly because otherwise I would have had just turkey. And a messy kitchen. And who would have photographed me all day?

Now I have to get ready because I'm (sit down) having brunch with DICK WHITMAN'S MOM today!


Hi, Dick Whitman's mom!

Am so excited I could spit. She STILL reads this blog. Half the time I'll hear from Dick Whitman and he'll start out with, "My mom tells me [insert June life event here]." I wish I had met her on Match. We'd still be together.

Do not fret. I will be reporting on this fabulous meeting of Dick Whitman's mom–my birthday twin–tomorrow. And we will begin our good deed project. And keep sending in your photos! I love how almost everyone has included a pet. You all know me too well.

Faithful Readers · Food and Drink · June's stupid life

Happy Thanksgiving! Or for you international readers, have a lovely Thursday!

It's Thanksgiving! I'm up! I do not WISH to be up early on a holiday, and I realize those of you who are grownups have already BEEN up for 109 hours, gutting your turkey or whatever, and believe it or not I have to also too take the innards out my turkey. Can I feed the inside parts to the dogs?

I can Google this, but go ahead and send me hysterical "NO JUNE! YOU WILL POIIIIIISON YOUR DOGS!" comments. I like how dogs can eat strange poop (as opposed to normal poop) and Dortios bags and half-rotten Kongs they find under the shed in the spring but one single grape is gonna murder them dead.

I am going to celebrate this delightful day of giving smallpox to Native Americans with my friend Laurie, who is a faithful reader and also an overachiever. My father was going to come here for Thanksgiving, all the way from Albuquerque just like Bugs Bunny,


(I adore YouTube) (what made Bugs Bunny think that orange thing was a flattering ensemble? Also he has the same coloring as Roger. I never thought about that before. And they have the same-sized feets.)

but wouldn't you know I got a statistics textbook to proofread, and I really super extra cannot turn down the extra money at this juncture, so I was all, "Come for Thanksgiving! Right after dinner I have to completely ignore you!" So we decided he is going to come in the spring when his seasonal allergies should kill him, and we are having Thanksgiving in April.

Anyway, this lead to Laurie and me deciding to have Thanksgiving together, and 18 seconds later she emailed me an entire menu, in Thanksgiving-color font, with a turkey gleefully holding up the headline, as if a turkey would be gleefully having anything to do with a menu wherein he was the main course.

MenuI told Laurie I would make the turkey, which was generous of me, seeing as that leaves her with the other 10 items. Why does anyone like me? But since everyone has such low expectations of me, the paramedics had to be called that I even knew HOW to make a turkey.

"You WILL?" she asked.

Then a few days ago, she emailed me to remind me to get the turkey, and I emailed back, all incredulous. "Of COURSE I'll get the turkey. GOD."

I would have never remembered to get the turkey. I would have gotten there and been all, where's the turkey? Aren't we having turkey? Geez, Laurie. I thought you were an overachiever.

So I go to the store, where as you can imagine no people were milling about looking haggard and miserable, and I get to the turkey section and HOLY CRAP was that overwhelming.

They had fresh turkeys that yelled at you and pinched your hind parts, frozen turkeys that had had botox, Butterball turkeys that ate a lot of In-and-Out Burger, store-brand turkeys that were probably cheap for the bargain shopper but that is not me and see above re statistics book and now you know everything that is wrong with me, and Martha Stewart turkeys for $40.

And listen here, Martha damn Stewart. I don't know what kind of entitled rich lady world you live in, but here on planet AMERICA we do not have any FORTY DOLLARS to spend on your stupid turkey–who lived unmoving in a cage somewhere like all the other turkeys–just because you've wrapped it in pretty blue-and-white plastic. You snooty WASP.

So I was overwhelmed. And yelling at Martha Stewart in my mind. When this nice lesbian women came up. And I know it is not nice to stereotype, but, folks, girlfriend was a lesbian. And if she wasn't, she needs to have a good talk with herself about why she prefers a buzz cut and walks like John Wayne.

She stands over next to me, looking at Martha damn Stewart's pretentious turkeys, and I'd like to state for the record SHE DID NOT GET ONE, EITHER, MARTHA, so if you were trying for the gay demographic, good luck, there.

"Do you find this overwhelming?" I asked Buzz LikeGirls.

"I find it expensive," she said. "Normally this breast (stop with the obvious joke, you guys. Geez.) is bloop de bloo dollars, and just because it's Thanksgiving they want bleee dee dee blee."

I was totally bored by the how-much-groceries-cost talk, and also amazed that people make turkeys when it isn't Thanksgiving.

"So, if you make turkey when it isn't Thanksgiving, you can probably tell me. Can I buy a fresh turkey today and it'll be okay on Thursday?"

Christopher Walken-Like-John-Wayne paused, like that was the weirdest question she had ever heard, and I love to read what she is saying about me in her blog. "Well, yes, ma'am. ('Ma'am.' We were the same age if we were a day.) See, here? 'Best by 11/27.' You're fine to eat this on Thanksgiving."

"Well, that's what I thought, but I didn't get why, if you could buy fresh, you'd buy frozen."

I still don't get that. Groceries. They confuse me.

Anyway, I thanked that woman for her help and as I was leaving said, "If I die from eating this turkey, Ima come back and haunt you."

And with total seriousness, she said, "Oh, please don't do that. I have so many people who're already haunting me."

Who wanted to throw her fresh Butterball on the floor and sit right in the refrigerated aisle and hear all about THAT? WHOOOO is haunting this poor woman? Why do people have to say interesting things right when you're leaving?

So, anyway. That was my turkey debacle. And now he is sitting in there waiting for me to reach inside and yank his guts out.

Don't forget to take a photo today and send it to me for my photo project. You have till Sunday to get it to me, and I did that because if you are at your mom's house, she may have no way to email a photo. I mean, that may or may not be the case at my own mother's house, and I was picturing the part where you all go around the table and say what you are thankful for, and you are bursting into tears because you couldn't participate in June's photo project and therefore are thankful for nothing.

At any rate, my email address is on–I think–the right side of this blog. And if it's not it's on the left side, genius. Be sure to tell me what time of day it was for you and where in the world geographically you are.

I am thankful for all of you, my little blog family. Have a happy Thanksgiving. Or Thursday. You international readers are so cranky.

June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Take it to the Pie!


I really like this song, because I'm 12, and also because Justin Timberlake calls me regularly and begs me to love him, and also because I am not at all a delusional freak. My name is Lola. I am a showgirl.

My point is, what irks me is the guy in the background of this song who keeps saying all the obvious stuff in his kind of falsetto voice. "Take it to the chorus!" "Take it to the bridge!" Was this just some friend of Justin Timberlake's who needed a job?

I have decided I want someone to stand around, and in a high, nervous voice command me to do really obvious stuff. "Breathe so you live!" "Make coffee now!" "Blooooog!"

Go ahead, be gone with it.

Perhaps nervous, high-pitched person could have helped me yesterday when I humiliated my own self in front of Vilhelm Oyster, and I realize I have now brought up my coworker Vilhelm two days in a row, which is not going to help his rather sizable ego but this sad tale needs mentioning.

I borrowed 50 cents from Vilhlem, because he is the kind of responsible person who always has cash on him and my wallet always has old receipts from Burger King and movie ticket stubs. Yesterday afternoon I went to his desk to return his 50 cents, feeling very adult that I had actually remembered to pay him back. I probably owe him about $79 in quarters by now.

I held my palm out flat, with the change on it. "They say you should hold your hand flat for horses and Vilhelm," I said, loving my own self, as usual. I'm bringing self-love back. Except apparently I really had been.

"What's going on, there?" asked Vilhelm, gesturing toward my nethers.

You guys. My pants were completely undone. I mean, they weren't just unzipped. The little snap thingie was unflapped, too. It was like, HELLO, WORLD! Say, what day is it? I don't know, let's gander at June. She has her chonies out with the days of the week on them.

Fortunately I had on a longish shirt, so Vilhelm was not seeing London and France, but that was the only thing that was saving me.

You can imagine how Vilhlem let this drop.

"Hey! Shouldn't I be paying YOU?" he guffawed, taking my change.

Awhile later, he dashed past my cubicle on his way to do some work. He had just passed me when he backed up. "Oh, is there still a show?"

Who adores himself? Who is going to let my humiliation drop, ever, in the next 70 years, do you think?

What I want to know is, HOW DID MY PANTS COME COMPLETELY UNDONE WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE? Did I have a blackout? Did I go into the bathroom and get so distracted I forgot the fasten-your-pants part? Am I bringing sexy back? Whiskey tango foxtrot.

I guess that is all I have to tell you, except that Tall Boy asked to see the pictures of Norma and Vern, and in case you just got here, I have three photo albums of this couple I don't know, and the albums date from the '40s and '50s, and supposedly someone is making a documentary about me and other odd people like me who have the hobby of collecting pictures of people we don't know.

Here is the trailer for said documentary. I look insane. Enjoy my bra strap! When I stand up my pants are undone. Anyway, you have to hand it to Tall Boy, who by the way pointed out about 80 things in those photos that I'd never noticed before, which is saying something because I've stared at those pictures 93949394 times.

Tall Boy kind of rocks.

Okay, I have to go get dressed, and you know, FASTEN MY PANTS. Hey, since this is the last day of the week that we are working, does it count as jeans day? What if I get there and no one else has on jeans? Crap. Maybe I will go with cords, which are pretty casual yet not jeans. I don't know why I'm even bothering to wear pants at this point, now that everyone has seen my ovaries.

Take it to the chorus!

Faithful Readers · June's stupid life · Music

I see the crystal raindrops fall

Good gravy. I spent so much time reading my comments and actual email from people I know in real life that it's now 7:30 and I have to rush. Fortunately I do not have to listen to Rush, and sometimes the end of my marriage feels like a tiny blessing.

And by the way, for those of you who don't read the comments, and I wish everyone either did or didn't read them–100% either way, and I know as a bisexual woman I am one to talk about being 100% either way, but it is HARD to repeat myself. Math is hard–Marvin's birthday was the other day.

"Did you get any good presents?" I asked Marvin.

"I got myself a guitar." Marvin said.


"Why do you possibly care at this point if I got a guitar?"

You know, I don't know. Just the IDEA of it irked me. Does he NEED a new guitar? How could be possibly NEED another one? He has 97 of them, as you may recall from how I could never Swifffer under the bed. Now the undercarriage of my bed is as clear as a bell and how often have I Swiffered under there, do you think?

Okay, I was not going to drone on, because now it's SEVEN THIRTY-FOUR, so I wanted to get to some pertinent facts.

1. Let's not have a book club book until the whole Thanksgiving/Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/whatever pagan thing happens in December/okay, this is as culturally and politically sensitive as I can get/New Year's thing is over, okay?

2. Remember a year or so ago when I did that cool project where you all took a picture of where you where on a particular day? You wanna do that again? Should we do it on Thanksgiving or is that too soon? If it's not too soon, send me a picture from Thanksgiving day (does not have to be at the dinner table) with the time of day, where GEOGRAPHICALLY you are (Denver, not "in my kitchen") (I got a lot of "in my kitchen" last time) (can you tell?) and email the photo to me. Try not to email a 394959304054030-foot-wide photo. And I realize photos come in feet quite a bit.

3. As soon as THANKSgiving, as they say it here, is over, we will start our good deeds project, and why does this blog get so busy at Christmas/pagan ritual time?

4. Yesterday at work I had a ton to do, which you'd never know from all the picking-up-of-women online I did (oh, just read my COMMENTS already), and after the first hour I was there I shouted across the room to my coworker Vilhelm Oyster. He answered, but the part where no one else chimed in with something snotty got my attention.

"Vilhelm? Are we the only ones here? Is is just us in this room?"

Vilhelm immediately burst into Just the Two of Us, and naturally so did I. I did the high parts. Which is what you always want.


God, what a horrific song. Anyway, we surmised it was indeed just the two of us, because no one told us to shut the Sam Hill up. I guess everyone is on Thanksgiving vacation, or they checked themselves into some kind of facility, having to work so closely with Vilhelm and me.

I'm sorry. Ima need you to play this whole song and jam out to that stupid steel drum and horn solo at the end. I want you to sway around your house with a brandy snifter. Yes, with brandy in it, at 7:50 in the morning.

You can make it if you try.

Okay, am leaving. Will totally be late for work at this point and Vilhelm will fire me.

I am berserk · June's stupid life

In which June gets a message from a Rennie and resents cake pops

Whenever I go to Starbucks, I am annoyed at my own demographic. With the retro jazz music, and the long-sleeve t-shirts under the short-sleeve tshirts–I mean, just wear an appropriate piece of CLOTHING. Don't wear two t-shirts. And with the ironic nerdy glasses and the cake pops.

CAKE POPS. What are we, 10 years old? We're eating cake on lollipops now.

Our generation. I annoy me.

Nevertheless, I had to get me some caffeine yesterday, because although this antiviral medication for my dumb shingles does not make me feel as bad as the doctor warned ("prepare for seven days of the flu") (thanks), it does make me tired, and I had to go to work.

I didn't HAVE to go to work, but a bunch of us divided up this project, and I am splitting it with the new girl, who is kicking ARSE and I felt bad about her doing more than her share, so I went in to get some stuff done so she would not end up a heap of overachieving dust by Thanksgiving.

Then of course I got to work and got online and started fooling around.

First I looked at the comments y'all made on my post from yesterday. Then I checked Facebook. Thank heavens I spent my Sunday at work to get some stuff accomplished. Finally I careened on over to OK Cupid.

OK Cupid is this free dating site that Daniel Boone told me about back when I was still speaking to him. "You should try it," he told me. "It's for smart people." They ask you questions like "Which is larger, the earth or the sun" and then you can say whether you only want people who know the answer (I do only want people who know the answer).

My point is, I had been cruising people for awhile at that site, but yesterday, since I was at work on a Sunday and all and sort of bored, I decided to go on the site and change my status to bisexual.

In case you are scrolling back through my archives for info on all the dates I have had with chicks, I am not remotely bisexual. I don't even like women that much. Most of my friends are men. What does that mean about me, anyway, that most of my friends are men? Am I maladjusted in some way? asks the woman who deceivingly changed her status to bisexual on a dating site.

It took about an hour for The New Bi June to hit the airwaves, but oh! Did I ever explode onto that site. I got a lovely and oh-so-appropriate message from WantsTantric. Some man dressed entirely in Renaissance garb, including a jaunty feather in his hat, sent me a message. Hold my goblet! I even got a message from a married man who is "ready to leave" his wife. Are you? Are you ready? You seem like a nice guy.

I got about 100 views yesterday, whereas normally I get around six. Which leads me to the conclusion I already had–men are ludicrous. I mean, I changed NOTHING ELSE about my profile–same photos, same words to describe me. Just one tweak about me and BAM. I seem more interesting.

I told the Tall Boy I had done this and he said, "That is hot."


The best part is when I got up this morning and had a new message–AND IT WAS FROM DICK WHITMAN.

"You're bisexual?"

I didn't even know he was ON that stupid site. He must have answered the earth/sun question wrong so they never sent him to me as a match.

Is it illegal to date cats? Because I give up.

I hate everything · June's stupid life


I'm up. Not only am I up, I have been out already, and looking pretty, because I didn't roll out of bed and leave the house in flattering sweatpants or anything.

I had to take Roger to the vet to get his hernia stitches out. The vet is open on Sunday during the convenient hour (hour!) of 7-8 on Sunday mornings.

If only Roger hadn't lifted all those heavy things, we wouldn't be IN this predicament.

Tiredrogwhy you bozzer my bruther, mom?

I tried to take him yesterday, as the vet had said I could bring him in "any time" on the weekend. Roger is one of those cats who easily goes in the cat carrier, and for those of you familiar with cats, you know this is somewhat of a blessing. Because putting a cat who does not want to go in one of those things? Good luck to you, there. Godspeed. May the wind be at your back. And so forth.

Oh, they will scratch you and flail and grab the sides and make themselves weigh 78 pounds and howl and become possessed by demons and you had no idea some 12-pound creature, who seemed so cute when it was in the "Free Kittens" box at the jazz festival, could turn into the Tasmanian Devil so rapidly.

But no. Roger does not do any of these things. He just goes right in there. Roger's issue? Is when we get in the car. First his normally pale-pink nose turns magenta, and then here is a brief rundown of what Roger has to say to me once the car is moving.


I mean, it is constant. CONSTANT. And loud. And cloying. And for the first 10 minutes you are all, "It's okay, kitty. It won't be long. We're almost there" and by the time you're pulling into the vet's parking lot you're all "SHUT THE %$#%*%@ UP, YOU STUPID CAT."

And yesterday? After that pleasant, unmeowy trip to the vet to get Roger's stitches removed "any time"? It turns out they close at noon. NOON. What sort of cockamamie place has weekend hours of closing at noon and 7-8 in the morning? Those are LUDICROUS weekend hours. Do they understand the rest of America works Monday through Friday? I mean, 89% of us do, who aren't unemployed. Thanks, economy. Still!

So after all that, I had to drive back home with Roger's stitches still in tact, and in case you didn't think it happened, on the way back Roger said, "MEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOWMEOW."

Also, since I was out and had such a pleasant companion, I decided to stop at the bank and deposit a check. Because why not run errands while I was up? And for some reason, this branch of my bank that is down by my vet has the most physically impossible driveway known to man. First of all, it's on the busiest street ever invented in the history of time.

Isn't that amazing? Did you know the busiest street ever invented in the history of time was in Greensboro, North Carolina? It's a big tourist attraction, which then just makes it busier.

So you can't just, say, turn in from the busy street. Oh, no, that's exit only, as homophobic men would say. And if you finagle around and get on the side street? You can't turn left to get to it, either. You have to get down the side street, go PAST it, turn into a person's driveway, scream "GET OUT THE BEER AND PRETZELS!" in your mind, back up, and go back to the bank.

I mean, accessing the Underground Railroad was easier.

So Roger (MEOWMEOWMEOW!) and I did all that, we waved at Harriet Tubman, and finally we were in the bank parking lot.


Except for 11% of the population. Sorry, again.

So I screamed around the building and went to the ATM. And you know what I enjoy? Is when people say "ATM machine."

At any rate, I got up there, and the machine said, "We're sorry, we cannot read your card. Please reinsert." And they showed me a little graphic of how to reinsert my card.

You know how they show those graphics, and it's supposed to help you know which way the stripe on your card should be facing? Those graphics help me not remotely at all. Not even a little bit. My mind does not work that way. Spatial relations. Not June's strong suit.

And girl, I twisted my card this way and that, and I mean, this is not my first time at an ATM. I knew I'd inserted it right the first time, and this would be an excellent moment for a Hulk joke but I am in a hurry. Which would be another excellent time for a Hulk joke.

Finally the machine said to me, "We're sorry. The ATM is not working at this time."

"$##@%!" I said. And I may have punched the ATM a little.

The entire outing, from start to finish, had been for naught. "MEOWMEOWMEOW!" said Roger, all the way home.

I considered setting my alarm for 7:00 today to take Roger in for his stitch removal, but I had done freelance work on a statistics book all night and I was all, You know what? No. Life has been stupid enough without having to get up early on a Sunday on top of everything else.

But then really early this morning I woke up to see Edsel licking Roger, and I thought, Oh how cute. He is such a good cat mom. And then an hour later, I woke up again because Edsel was coughing a hairball onto the bed. My dog had a cat hairball.

Sometimes it feels like my particular life is extra-super-ridiculous compared to everyone else's. Is that true?


Lu feel like dat tru.

So anyway, I was up, and it was 7:00, so Roger and I went.


The whole procedure took about eight seconds and they were playing Christmas music at the vet and I really feel like any and all acknowledgements of Christmas before December should just be against the law.

Today? I am spending the whole day at a spa and later Jude Law is whisking me to France where he is going to buy me a new wardrobe consisting of zero sweatpants while here at home they are lobotomizing Edsel for me. Alternatively, I am going to proofread a statistics textbook some more. And maybe get more cat litter.

Also, Harriet Tubman is coming over for coffee.

Film · June's stupid life

Breaking June

Last night, I dragged the Tall Boy to see the Twilight movie.

You drag a man to see a Twilight movie, it is clearly the beginning of the relationship. If we had been dating, say, even two months, I'll bet he would have said, "Yeah. Maybe call me after." But I said to him, "I'm going to see the Twilight movie. I'm certain you're not interested." and he was all, "I have very little knowledge of these movies. Yeah, I'll go."

When you are as incredibly hot as me, things like this happen all the time.

I had delivered to him the delightful news that I could fill him in on the plots of the three other movies he'd missed up till now, and in fact had offered to do interpretive dances of the films if he wanted, but somehow we just ended up making out on my couch till it was time for the movie to start. I cannot imagine why anyone would not want to see my interpretive dance skillz but there you go.

I also offered to recap the plots in beat poetry form and no I DON'T know why I haven't managed to maintain any relationships since Marvin left. What do you mean?

We got to the theater, all mussed, minutes before it was to begin and let me tell you what. First of all, every screen was showing this movie and every seat was taken by an overwrought 16-year-old girl. The two middle-aged people, who had just been making out on the couch, had to sit in the SECOND EFFING ROW, which is not at all ridiculous or anything.

Why do they even MAKE the second row? It's awful.

At least I got to see Edward close up. And could Jacob flounce out of rooms dramatically a little more often? Really, Jacob, try to be more of a puss. Jacob. World's most dramatic werewolf.

Anyway, it was good. I mean, "good" in terms of I-am-watching-a-Twilight-movie good. The 16-year-olds behind us never stopped talking once and the 16-year-old next to me checked her cell phone during the movie. Of course, mostly I just resented her for having a cell phone. I wonder if her parents would buy me one?

When we left, Tall Boy asked, "So werewolves imprint?" and I told him all about that important fact. Then he wondered why Edward lived with all those pale people so I told him that, and why there were all those graduation caps in the hallway at Edward's house and why didn't the animals Edward eats turn into vampires (good question), till finally he said, "Why am I asking about this like I care?"

I suggested he rent the other three films this weekend to get caught up. That maybe he could be America's first straight man to enjoy the Twilight series and he'd get on the Today Show or something. That show is SO for us women and gay men. They spend like an hour and a half giving us close-ups of Bella's wedding dress.

WHICH IS DIVINE, by the way.  Oh, it's long-sleeved, and fitted, and dips really low in the back but is covered in lace…

…Straight male readers? Hello?

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

It is a river, that drowns the tender reed

So, I like this tall boy. IKNOWSHUTUP.

The first person to say, "Nice man break" gets a slap from my shingles. Which hurt, by the way. I guess the hurty part was on its way when I wrote, "Oh, it doesn't hurt that much." It's like God is sitting there annoyed with me all the time. Reading my blog. "Oh really? You don't think shingles are so bad? Try this, heifer."

Why am I on God's last nerve all the time? Am I that bad? Aren't there other people who are more irritating, like–okay, I was going to say Saddam Hussein or Osama bin Laden, but I guess I can't say them anymore. What about Huey Lewis? Can't God be concentrating on him?

My POINT is, even though I was on a man break I met Tall Boy and I said, "Ooo! Look at him!" and then I was all, "No. Man break" and then I was all "No, but look at him!" and then I was all, "NO! Man break!" and then I was all, "But LOOK!" and this is probably why God takes time out of his busy schedule to find me jarring.

I've been seeing him for a few weeks now and believe it or not he lives IN THE SAME CITY, which is a first. Everyone I have dated since I have become old and single and not-so-swinging has lived in Winston or Charlotte or Tibet.

And I keep waiting to find out what's wrong with him. I mean, tall. I like tall. Has two kittens. Marry me now. Vegetarian. Okay, I'll never need to ask, Did you eat all the ribs? Does animal rescue in his spare time. Hi, are you Barry Gibb?

I know that made no sense. But you know how I am about Barry Gibb. And for the record, Barry Gibb has about five rescue dogs. So it kind of made sense.

Yesterday, Tall Boy sent me an email with a picture from his kittens. "Cora and Carmen say hi," he wrote. He even has good cat names.

But there. There was the flaw I was looking for. Dudes.

Carmen and cora 2
I know. Those kittens are adorable. Look at the one with half a face. And the carmely one sat on me.

But I wrote back: "What is with that blanket? Holy crap."

"I knew you were going to mention the blanket. I like that blanket. It's soft. I am secure in my masculinity."

"Maybe you shouldn't be," I wrote.

I mean, that thing is dreadful. It's not just that it is flower-covered. They are awful flowers. I don't know how the kittens aren't having seizures.

Several hours later I wrote back. "You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to whip out all my charms at this point, so you're gonna get all 'Oh my God, June is THE BOMB.' And then you're gonna say 'I will do ANYTHING for June.' And you're going to say, 'June. What can I do for you? Name it!' And I will say, Get rid of that blanket."

"I'm not getting rid of the blanket," he said, oblivious to my charms, which I thought I had already whipped out. "It's cozy. Am I supposed to sleep on a slap of concrete under chainmail? Is that more manly?"


Then I came up with an even more brilliant plan.

"Did you ever see Sweet November?" I wrote him, thinking this was the best idea ever.

I explained the plot of Sweet November, which many of you may recall I just saw. Sandy Dennis, who I find irritating much like God finds me irritating, is dying of something (they are never specific) (but she is all pink and healthy and glowing throughout the film) (sometimes she naps, to let us know she is dying), and each month she lets a new man move in with her. Throughout the month, she fixes whatever is wrong with each man. Naturally they each fall madly in love with old buck-toothed, nervous Sandy Dennis, but she unceremoniously kicks them out on the 31st, or in poor Anthony Newly's case, the 30th, because he got her in sweet November.

"She took men who seemed normal, but who had terrible problems, like hideous blankets, and fixed them," I wrote. "And OH MY GOD! Our first date was November first! I WAS MEANT TO CURE YOU OF THE BLANKET!"

"This is the most I have ever thought about Sandy Dennis," was all Tall Boy wrote back.

That was, in fact, the last we talked last night.

My feeling is that is because he went to the all-night blanket store to get something manlier.

Health · June's stupid life

Hanging out my shingle

In case you did not take seven hours out of your day to read my comments yesterday, I have effing shingles.


When aluminum siding is so much less work.

The doctor gave me an antiviral medication, each of which is the size of a thigh-high boot, for heaven's sake, and I know Ima choke on it and I live here alone in case you forgot and eventually they will notice I didn't show up for work and someone will break in and I will be half eaten by dogs with an antiviral boot in my throat and shingles up my left side.

This is not how I wish to be remembered.

So that's what's going on with me. You get shingles from stress and/or being immunocompromised, so now I am apparently riddled with AIDS on top of everything else. I am the only person who never gets any sex yet gets riddled with AIDS. I guess I should stop going downtown and ripping the needles away from people and jabbing them into my neck.

Remember how I said I wanted a new hobby? Puppet shellacking was taken. Did you ever see that Brady Bunch episode when Marcia signed up for all the extracurricular activities that were remotely available at school? Is there actually anyone out there who did NOT see an episode of The Brady Bunch? Are you from America? Are you younger than 35 or older than 60?

My point is, what the hell was wrong with Marcia? Was she bipolar? Who gets that ambitious? And then how was it that she ended up with lava all over her? Didn't Peter have something to do with that? Was he in an extracurricular activity with her? Did he drag her back to Hawaii? Was he going to get revenge on that effing tarantua once and for all? You can't blame him.

I have to go. I know this was a meaningful post. I stayed up too late, as I was possibly kissing a tall boy in the windy rainy night last night. Because nothing says, "Come hither" like shingles.

Shingles, by Avon. Nothing says Come Hither like Shingles. Scratch the scent spot here to experience Shingles!

Okay. Obviously the virus has gone to my brain. Goodbye.

Health · I am berserk · June's stupid life

Don’t be rash

Dear Faithful Reader Target Steve,

Seriously? Christmas decorations already at Target? What gives? How obnoxious.

And yes. I do blame some guy who reads my blog, who happens to work at Target, for all the decorations in all the Target stores across the land. I hold him personally responsible.

I had to go to Target last night, as I must do pretty much 11 nights a week. This time it was to pick up my prescription Vitamin D. Who has to get prescription Vitamin D? I do. Loserly eats-a-salad-in-New-Orleans June, over here.

Prescription Vitamin D. They better not find out that Vitamin D doesn't matter, or even worse, that it'll kill you or something. You know that always happens. Oooooo! Stay away from eggs! Oh! We were wrong! Eggs are fine!

Ohh! Chocolate makes you break out! Psych! It doesn't!

Make up your MINDS.

I look forward to the day they find out a diet consisting entirely of black coffee, Tang, Pixie Stix and White Cheddar Cheese Rice Cakes is the best thing for you, because other than the fact that I have 0% D vitamins in my body I am the picture of health.

Other than this mysterious rash I have covering my body. Did I tell you this part? Since I got back from New Orleans I have these weird flying-saucer shaped welts on my rib cageal area. Okay, "covering my body" is a bit of an exaggeration, and I know that shocks you, that I may have exaggerated when it comes to a health concern.

Naturally I got on the phone to the doctor immediately.

"Beleaguered doctor of June's office. May I help you?"

"Hi, April. It's June. I think I'm dying."

"[sighhh.] Hello, June. What's going on?"

"Well, I've Web MD'd it…"


"Stop SIGHING. And it looks like either shingles or smallpox or this rare tropical thing that should render me having visions in the next 15 minutes."

"Can you come in tomorrow at 8:30? Dr. Van is back from her…leave of absence."

"Oh good! She'll be glad to see me! If I actually live through the night I'll be there at 8:30. …Did you just sigh again? …Hello?"

April is really rude.

If it's shingles I think I should be in extreme pain, but you know how tough I am. It's hard for me to gauge what the rest of you consider "extreme." And a pilgrim did just give me a blanket recently; it'd be perfect for Thanksgiving if I had smallpox. The ultimate Thanksgiving disease! Do you lose weight when you have smallpox?

My boss, who has been my boss for a mere six months and is already over me, said they'll probably diagnose me with dermatitis, which means "You have some kind of rash. Here is a cream." Ima be SO PISSED if I have dermatitis. I want a real name. A real.Latin.name. I want hoodacunilatus or something. Okay, that looked kind of dirty. Maybe I don't want hoodacunilatus. I want e pluriblatia solo mio. I got all Italian there in the end, didn't I? Why can't I make up a good Latin disease?

As long as I don't have vomitorium, Ima be okay.

In other news, and I know it's going to be hard for you to do anything but worry about my severe life-threatening rash, my coworker Deb, the one who hates us drinking margaritas, is revamping her kitchen. This means she is throwing out 94930404 cookbooks from the 1970s, so she left them all on the communal table at work, where I not only spread my rash but picked up a lovely all-Jello-recipes-all-the-time cookbook.

My next-cubicle-neighbor, The Poet, picked up a delightful all-tuna-recipes cookbook, and we have decided that should I live, we are going to have Caucasian Heritage Day at work, wherein we bring both a lovely tuna casserole from her cookbook and a Jello mold from mine. Popular!

Really, that Jello cookbook is a sight. If I knew how to scan things with my new computer I would show it to you but I have no idea. Besides, I am covered in welts and can barely move. I look like a Sleestak. People from the blind school just tried to read my skin. Someone just asked me if I was Eudora Welty.

I wonder if the voodoo priestess put a spell on me! I'm turning into a reptile as we speak! Oh, crap.

It's a long, bumpy road ahead.

Friends · June's stupid life · Travel

Who dat?

Hey, did you hear I went to New Orleans?

On the first night, on my way there, I stayed with Faithful Reader Sadie, who coincidentally has a dog named Sadie. You'd think she'd name her dog something different from her own name, but who am I to tell people what to do? Anyway, I had never met Faithful Reader Sadie nor her dog Sadie nor her cute husband Mr. Sadie, but she has been commenting forever, so when she said I could stay with her on my way to New Orleans, I trusted that she would not kill me and indeed she did not.

Look at her! This is Sadie the dog, not the person. Anyway, I got a charge out of them both, because Sadie the person was all, "I got you Pop-Tarts, and I know you take your coffee half caf and half decaf, so I got that, and here's a tiara in your room if you want to play with it."

June's blog. Making her an annoying fussy guest who you have to get special things for since 2006.

Friday morning dawned early, as opposed to it dawning late, and Sadie the person and the dog made me a ltitle bag of treats to go and why does anyone like me, is what I want to know? I just come over, eat all the food, take some to go and shed everywhere. I am a delight.


I stopped off at a truck stop in Alabama, or maybe Mississippi, for some boiled peanuts and coffee, as you do, and met this nice kitty there. The owner of the truck stop told me the kitty lived there and everyone fed him, otherwise who'd be owning Alabama kitty? The whole time I was petting him, I could hear Hulk's stupid voice, which sadly appears in my head way more than I wish it to: "%#@@&. Only you could find a #@$$&# cat at a truck stop."

I stay friends with Hulk out of pity, because no one else really wants to hang around him that much, owing to the fact that he says things like, "Percent pound sign at at ampersand." I'm really one of the only people who'll tolerate it.

Foodgroups(Hulk's three food groups)

At any rate, I got to New Orleans and had to drive through the city awhile before I got to the hotel, and I am telling you, I saw the phrase, "Who Dat?" 94933939495595595593837374755753 times in the first 10 minutes.

When I got to our room, Donna answered the door and I said, "Am I already sick of the phrase 'Who dat?'"

You know what you don't want to do? Is tell Donna you are sick of something. Every 20 seconds, for the rest of the trip, Donna said, "Who dat!?" We'd be looking at a menu: "Who dat! What you gonna get?" We'd be wandering the streets: "Who dat! Did you see what she had on?" She'd walk in from the shower: "Who dat?"

No one on the planet is having a greater love affair than the one Donna was having with herself each time she irked me anew with "Who dat?" She is currently out purchasing a diamond eternity ring for herself, to show herself she'd marry her all over again.

Who dat?

And really, she is lucky she lived through the whole trip, not just because I was going to stab her through her who dat head, but also because everywhere we went, someone was trying to shove shellfish down her allergic gullet.

We decided to eat at the bar (no, I DIDN'T have a drink. Calm down.) at this restaurant because it faced outside and we wanted to people-watch. You could sit there for the rest of your life and stare at people in New Orleans and never grow bored. Trust me. There are men in sparkly bras, women practically naked, people dressed as trees. One person was dressed as a piece of poop and I am not making that up.

Anyway, first Donna had to try to find something on the menu that would not kill her. "Oh! There's shrimp and clams! Or I could have scallops with lobster! How about the crayfish!" We were in hysterics. Even her old favorite, potatoes (you have never known a person to be more fond of potatoes. She would MARRY potatoes had she not already married herself over the Who Dat thing) (She would be Mrs. Potato Head) (She would be Mr. Potato Head's other woman. Mrs. Potato Head would come make hash browns out her ass. Girlfriend likes her a potato, is the point I am trying to get across to you) were cooked IN SHELLFISH.

Finally she got the catch of the day, which believe it or not did not come in a shell, and we were enjoying our dinner when WHOOOMP! The bartender slapped a gigantic thing of oysters on the bar and started, I don't know, shucking them? Whatever you do to oysters. And we thought it was maybe a one-time deal, but girl. It was like he was Sisyphus or something with the boulder and the hill. WHOOMP. Another tray of oysters. He was never-ending with his oysters.

"You know, I don't have an Epi-Pen," Donna said nervously.

ShelldonnaAnyway, she lived, obviously, or else I might have led with that.

WeddingOther than nearly killing Donna, New Orleans is a festive town. In case you didn't know. There seemed to be a tradition of people getting married and inexplicably parading down the street with their guests as a band played jazz, and every time one of those bands went by us, I'd say "I could go for some Zatarain's."

Donna usually answered me "Who dat?" Really, it is never good to have two people who get such a charge out of their own selves together like that.

BeadsandcrownOne of the wedding guests threw his beads at me, probably because I was standing there with my hoots just out and proud. Anyway it gives us all ample opportunity to enjoy my metal crown.

BookkittySpeaking of New Orleans traditions, am I the only person who goes there and heads to the book store?

RollykitAnd finds a kitty to love? Hi, Hulk. "Ampersand pound pound."

I also wanted to go to the voodoo shops, and at some point Donna actually had to work, which is why she was there (whatEVER), so while she did pesky work, I asked the concierge to send me to a real voodoo place, outside of the touristy area.

I took a cab to a real neighborhood, and went to this shopping center that seemed to cater to liberal white people. It had a yoga studio, a food co-op, a healing arts center. You know the drill. Then right in the middle of all that was a voodoo priestess's store.

And also? That day?


PittyHello, pitty pit pit! I love you and your big big head! I hope a white liberal person gives you a home very soon.

Anyway, I went to the voodoo shop and oh, I looked in there for probably an hour. There were powders you could bathe in to, like, put a spell on your own self. There were candles you could buy shaped like a person, and then you buy oils and anoint the candles. So, if I wanted Hulk to love me, which I do not, I'd buy a boy candle and then I guess love-me-Hulk oil and put it on the candle or something.

Oh that store was packed with voodooy thingamabobs. Finally I was drawn to a pink envelope. "What's in here?" I asked the priestess, who looked like a liberal white person. "There's an amulet in there. It draws love to you."

"How much?"

"Three dollars."


So I bought my three-dollar amulet, and sat in the food co-op and read the directions. You had to read the little chant that went with it, so I did, and I put the amulet in my wallet and went outside to hail a cab. A truck with two men riding in back went by, and one whistled while the other screamed out, "I LOVE YOU!"

So there you go. I got my three dollars' worth.

ArchHere's a place where I stopped off for a decaf after my dabble with the dark underworld…

Coffeekitty…and here's the kitty I met at the coffee shop. "Pound pound pound sign! Percent!"

On my last night there, we were pretty tired, and we went down to the hotel restaurant to get a late-night salad. Partayy! We ate up at the bar, where AGAIN I did not have a drink and I really wish you'd relax, and some drunk guy next to Donna said, "So what are YOU two planning on tonight?"

Donna didn't tell me this till we were back up in the room. Not wanting to let on that we were the most boring duo in New Orleans, she said, "We're going up to the room to discuss our game plan" knowing full well that without a word between us, we were headed upstairs to put on our pajamas and sit on our beds and talk, which was precisely what we were in the midst of doing when she relayed the story.

"After careful consideration," she said hysterically, as we fluffed our pillows to lean up on them, "I think we're staying in."

Donna had to go back to work the morning I left, so I penned a note and left it on her bed.

"Hey Donna," I wrote. " I can't believe I forgot to ask you this, but,



Friends · June's stupid life · Travel

Big easy June. Wait.

I am leaving later today for New Orleans! Wooo!

I picked a fine week to stop sniffing glue.

And guess who has not packed one iota yet? I hear you need plenty of iotas for New Orleans. I mean, I kind of packed in my MIND already. Does that help you organized people who are itchy at the prospect of my unpacked pink bag?

I am going to New Orleans because my high school best friend, Donna, is there on business. Why anyone needs to go to New Orleans on business is beyond me. She is a professional crawdad-head sucker. That sounded disgusting. Actually I think she is allergic to shellfish, and are crawdads shellfish? Because am I going to spend the entire trip jamming Epi-Pens into her leg while they make us eat crawdads? Isn't that what you do in New Orleans other than expose your hooty-hoots for beads?

Do you like my detailed knowledge of where I'm going? Do you like all the research I've done? Hell, I'm just putting it in the GPS and asking for the good voodoo shops once I get there.

Anyway am excited. And this blog will go quiet for a few days. I still do not have a ding and dang cell phone, so I can't keep up with you, and I haven't had time to look around for old posts to post.

SORRY. Geez. You know, some people go MONTHS without posting, Miss Doxie. Ima go four days and y'all are gonna have 88 fits, aren't you?

I am bringing my camera, and I will not even DIGNIFY your hysterical, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THE PETS?!?!?" questions. I am putting them in the bedroom and closing the door. Survival of the fittest. Roger will be fine when I return.

My best friend from high school, Donna, and I met the very first day of school. They put us both in the deaf homeroom. Is it okay to say "deaf"? They change what's sensitive and what isn't, but I think you're still allowed to say that without someone sending me a scathing email. Anyway, I swear to you it was all deaf kids and the two of us. I was sitting there, in the first five minutes of high school, thinking, This is awful. Everyone in high school is so QUIET. Is this what it's gonna be like?

I saw a girl near me who had hair EXACTLY LIKE MINE who seemed to be thinking the same thing. Hours later we were in gym class together, and we had EXACTLY THE SAME fine physical prowess, meaning the gym teacher would just shake his head and let us play badminton in the corner all year, and anyway we came to the theory that they took the loudest girl from North Junior High and the loudest one from South and put them with all the deaf kids so they couldn't disturb anyone.

We still managed to bug everyone else at school.

And now we can irk everyone in New Orleans, and I assure you there will be a minimum of 15 times that Donna and I will be giggling until we have no breath. Because we may be middle-aged now, and she has a fancy job and two kids and so on, but we both still HAVE THIS HAIR and neither of us has matured an iota.

Even though I am packing iotas, I will not get them out.

So have a good weekend, y'all, and I will tell you about my trip when I return. Unless it makes it on the national news before then.

Food and Drink · June's stupid life · Not Grace Kelly

Where everybody knows your name

Before I begin, I would just like to thank Tallulah for becoming a 6,000-pound LUMP once she gets into bed. A 6,000-pound lump that cannot be budged no matter what you do. Old Ton-ya Harding, over there, was on all the blankets last night and I slept under one-eighth of an inch of sheet in the freezing cold. Thanks, Talu. I enjoy your every fiber right now.


Lu sleeped gud. {stretssh.}

Look at that damn floor. How that floor vexes me. I must fix it.

Oh, and also, it's my mother's birthday today.

Go, June's mom. It's your birthday. Gonna party like it's your birthday. Drink Bacardi like it's your birthday. Reference songs from 2000 like it's your birthday.

Later today, mom will be telling me precisely how many phone calls and cards and lunches and well-wishes she got. Yes, she counts. Yes, her best friend and I tell her this is annoying. She tells us annually anyway.

And speaking of Bacardi, I got something to tell you.

Some of you know I don't drink. I mean, you know this because I have said so on this blog. Or you know this because you know me in real life. I have been a not-drinker for a long time now, probably about as long as that stupid birthday song above has been in existence. Before that, I was, you know, quite the drinker. It was my area of expertise.

I do not talk about it a lot because the way I went about not drinking anymore is


and you aren't supposed to go blabbing about it in public. Of course, I'd be more than willing to talk with anyone about it privately via email or whatever.

At any rate, things were going along nicely and I'd be all, "Oh cranberry juice for me, please!" it so on.

Then I don't know if you noticed this, but Marvin moved out and a few months later I started dating. Did you notice that? Did you pick up on that subtle change in my life?

Well. The very first date I went on, which was with Dick Whitman–he is the George Washington of my foray into dating. The Adam. The Kelly Clarkson–I was as nervous as a cat. I hadn't been on a date since Clinton was president. And he hadn't even dated Monica Lewinski yet. I mean, I was tense. So I ordered a Pinot Grigio. I'd never had a Pinot Grigio–that had been invented while I was sober. But Ramona on Real Housewives drinks them like water, so I wanted to try one.

And we were off and running. By the way, Dick Whitman feels personally responsible for me drinking again and that is ludicrous. It's no one's responsibility but mine, obviously. Oh, okay. Dick Whitman, you DROVE ME TO DRINK! It was the orange polka-dot shirt!

And for me, I'm not that dramatic of a drunk. I mean, when my friends got together with me and I–gasp!–ordered a drink, a few said, "Are you okay?" but most said, "I never really thought you were an alcoholic anyway."

Which by the way? If you have a friend who is in a recovery program? Do not say that. Please.

My point is, five months I've been drinking now, and the other night I was on a date. Shut up. I know I'm on a man break. I met a really nice boy, and no, I didn't meet him on Match.com, and I do not want to jinx it yet with details but so far it's like Central Casting has said, "Let's plop down a really excellent boy for June." Okay, he likes Rush. But in his spare time he works with an animal rescue organization. I think the latter cancels out the former.

MY POINT IS, which I know I already said, he and I went out Saturday night and I had one drink with him, and after he dropped me off I drove out in the middle of the night and bought wine at the grocery store. I had negative 16 dollars in checking so I used a credit card.

And it occurred to me. This is not normal behavior. A person does not need to go out late at night to get wine for herself and a person does not need to CHARGE WINE if she is a, you know, normal drinker.

So I called a friend and last night we might have gone somewhere


and what I like about myself is how subtle I am.

Hey! Maybe I should do a corkscrew giveaway! I have a really good one.

So that is all my news that is fit to print.

Photo on 11-8-11 at 9.01 PM #2And by the way, the kittens are recovering just fine. Delighted to be able to be picked up and posing for the webcam again. "dis fun, mom. andersun having a ball."

Friends · June's stupid life · My pets


Six hundred and seventy dollars later, poor Roger and Anderson are back home.


Thank all that is holy and credit-giving I have a CareCard. It's like a credit card for the vet. Roger not only had to get fixed, he had a hernia. Plus they had to get their final round of vaccines, and when all was said and done–yeah.

That's three Botoxes I could have had.

When I went to pick my gender-neutral cats up, the vet said, as she ALWAYS does, "Are you sure about Roger's age?"

"Yes. I got him when he was a teensy thing. He used to be able to crawl under a closed door."

Remember when I first got him and he did that? Awww.

"Well, he's the biggest non-Maine Coon I have ever seen," said the vet. "And he's not overweight. Promise me you'll not change vets. I have to see how big this monster ends up getting."

"What's he weigh now?" I asked her. She looked at her chart. "Twelve point two, and he's barely seven months old. Anderson weighs seven pounds and he's two weeks older. Roger outweighs him by 40%."

We looked at each other with big eyes and laughed for a long time. Roger is going to end up being the size of a Macy's Parade float.

Anyway, they seem to be doing fine, although I felt bad because I picked up Roger and he said, "MOW!" and I think I hurt his little hernia incision. I am an outstanding cat mom.

In other news, I never got to tell you about my most excellent discovery about Dick Whitman. This weekend he and I went shopping for iPhones, because if I don't get another iPhone soon Ima die, and if I get the old 3G one it'll be really cheap, and he wants the new fancy kind because he currently has a giant shoe phone like they spoke into on 90210. 

So we were at the Apple store at the mall near me, and neither of us got an iPhone for reasons that would bore you and you would all end up looking like the cats in the photo above, and when we were leaving the store Dick Whitman–WHO I AM NOT DATING–said, "You wanna go to Anthropologie?"

Anthropologie is only my favorite store. They might as well name it Junethropologie, because that makes a ton of sense. "Yeah, if YOU do!" I mean, they only sell housewares and girl clothes there.

It turns out? Dick Whitman? Even though he is straight, loves–LOVES–shopping for girl clothes, and picking out girl clothes, and accessories, and ohmygod he is like someone you can play Barbies with! He is so good at picking out clothes! Five months I been knowing Dick Whitman and I never knew this riveting fact about him. We must have been in Anthropologie for over an hour, looking at hats and dresses and sweaters and necklaces and he is more fun than any gay boyfriend I ever had. Are you listening, Dave Newman who was never gay that way and who always wanted to go hiking instead?

I'm just saying. Dick Whitman. There is a reason everyone comes into your life. This is why he is here. He is my one-millimeter-from-being-gay friend. Am delighted at this discovery.

I guess that's all I have to tell you, except I turned on the TV last night, to warm it up in anticipation of my show (Real Housewives) (totally want to hire last night's psychic), and I ended up watching an old movie called Sweet November. Has anyone ever seen it? It was good, even though the actress Sandy Denis has always made me nervous. 

Also, why don't you guys ever invite me to your plastic-surgery parties? Okay, that is really all.