I hate everything · June's stupid life

I interrupt this break to tell you the following crucial story. No, I’m not done breaking. Breaking is lovely, in fact.

This morning, I left for work, and I was looking snappy. I may or may not have forced Ned and some other friends to watch The Way We Were last night, and Barbra Streisand's red-and-black outfit inspired me.
BSo today I slapped on my black-and-white peplum top that kind of looks like I'm wearing a furnace filter with its hexagonal design but I got it at Anthropologie so shut up, and my usual black-and-fur pants, and some fancy spectator pumps. With red earrings. I kind of can't get enough of myself. In fact, above is a photo of me, not B Streisand.

I was leaving my house, with my pumps and my fur and my purse and the requisite coffee because I am an addict, and as I came down my porch steps, I felt a little…flimy. Yes, that was it. Filmy. Why–

"ACCCCCCCCKKKKKK!" I said, as I noted I was covered in spiderweb, and not just a little. I kind of looked like Sade in her No Ordinary Love video, where she's running around in a long wedding veil. Except for the part where I lacked dignity and loveliness because

"AAACCKKKK! ACK ACCCCCKKKK!" I added, splaying my arms this way and that, coffee flying, red earrings everywhere, my purse's guts all over the ground. Because at this point I SAW the spider on me, I saw it, and it was big. And it was RED. Which went great with my outfit but that's beside the point.

"EEEEEKKKK!" I shrieked, and I desperately wanted that giant red spider off me, but of course was too afraid to touch it. I figured it was one of those red black widows we've heard so much about, or maybe a red brown recluse. A maroon recluse.

"ACCCKKK!" I said, for a change, and got my purse off the ground and kind of…shoved the spider off me. I think. Which is the worst thing ever, because



I searched all over myself, hither and yon, and looked under my purse, and shook my fine spectators, and finally made my way to my car, slapping at myself constantly because I was having Vietnam flashbacks.

As I unlocked my car door and slapped myself a few more times just in case, I noticed the door open across the street, at the dead lady's house. Some young guy finally bought her home, and I've been wanting to go introduce myself, and there was his front door open, with some small dog watching me cynically behind the screen door.

Naturally I phoned Ned immediately, at work, and one wonders at this point how many screamy phone calls I have made to Ned while he sits at his desk like a grownup. He kept having to ask me to repeat myself, because I keep screeching the details, and finally I said, "And what's awful is I think my new neighbor saw me, the young guy."

Ned paused for a minute. "If that guy just saw you, his whole day has gotten good. He's over there thinking, 'Wow. It won't be so bad, living across from her. This won't be bad at all.'"

I'm going to assume that was a compliment.

I have to go slap myself some more.

Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · June's stupid life

Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo (Sadly, this is not the first time I have titled a post that)

Thanks, everyone, for your concern about Ned. I'm glad everyone likes him as much as I do. Okay, maybe you don't like him as much as I do, but thanks for caring about him. He is a good egg.

I have another Purple Clover post up, this time about God and Julie Andrews, as you do, and also I want to tell you something.

I've been writing this blog almost every day for nearly seven years. And you know what Ima do? I am going to take a little break. A little time off. I'm working my normal job and writing this blog and writing Purple Clover articles and doing statistics textbooks in my spare time, and I am just, you know, needing a break. Kind of like when Ross and Rachel took a break. Didn't Ross sleep with a copy shop worker or something?

I need time to go sleep with Kinko's.

Thanks, faithful readers! I heart you.

XO, June

...friend/Ned · Health · June's stupid life

In which June gets dramatic for a change

I have been being such a phony baloney on this site the past few days. I feel like somehow people knew, too, because the comments were few and far between. I think if I can't say what's going on, I write a sucky-ass post. That is the official highfalutin' writer's term for it: Sucky-ass Post-ishness. Henry James refers to it in his writings.

We had a health scare, and when I say, "we" I mean Ned, but it turns out, anything that happens to Ned is all of a sudden happening to me, too. I knew I was berserk about Ned, but I didn't even know how important he'd become to me in just a year and seven months.

Ned smoked for 20 years, and he didn't just smoke a little. I never knew him as a smoker, but the way he describes it, apparently he was Smokey Bear. There was smoke on the water. He was on top of old smokey. Is what he was. No wonder he likes Winston-Salem so much. His favorite movie was Waiting to Exhale. His favorite song was You Light Up My Life. His favorite conjunction was butt.

When he spoke, he had no filter. His favorite rapper was Tupac.

If you're catching my drift. If you're picking up what I am throwing down, which happens to be a cigarette, which by the way Ned used to smoke.

He quit in 2010, for myriad reasons, one being he read something about quitting smoking written by David Sedaris, which is just another of the six thousand things I love about Ned.

But many months ago, he started saying his back hurt, and it was hurting more and more often. I didn't want to say anything, but it made me nervous, because both my Uncle Jim and my grandfather started out with bad backs, and it turns out they had the lung cancer.

Finally Ned went to the doctor, who ordered an MRI, which we went to last Saturday. And yes, the whole getting-him-in-on-Saturday thing worried me, but Ned was unconcerned. "I feel bad, because a lot of people coming here are getting scary things checked out, but for me they're just finding out what's wrong with my back," he said naively, while we waited.

The problem with being a hypochondriac is you know too much. And I knew one of the things they were looking for.

On Tuesday Ned got his results. Ned emailed me to say he had to have a bone scan next, to rule out that he had some kind of cancer that had metastasized to his spine. He didn't want to talk, and he was definitely freaked out.

What I would have done right then is have a cigarette.

Tuesday through Friday were like I was living in some kind of nightmare. One of my friends said, "You're going to have to be strong," and then we looked at each other and laughed for 20 minutes. Have you met me? My job in this life is not to be the strong one. My job is to be the hysterical one while everyone else gets things done and slaps me and says, "Get ahold of yourself." The strong one. Pfft.

But I faked it. I went to Ned's that night and he made tasteless cancer jokes and I laughed at them and said this was nonsense, everything was going to be fine. In the meantime I couldn't eat, or sleep, or think, and I cannot even IMAGINE how crappy I've been at my job, or at this statistics textbook I have over here. I would go from thinking, "Oh, everything is going to be FINE" to complete panic six seconds later.

Ned has this cat he is crazy about, and he always says if she ever dies (if), he might get a tattoo of her little paw somewhere. The other day he said, "Maybe I should get the cat a tattoo of me." And I laughed, and then I couldn't help it. I cried. I was trying to be all breezy and reassuring, but that was just such a Ned thing to say, and what would I do if I didn't have Ned around saying Ned things? Why did I all of a sudden have to be in this stupid Love Story situation, where I've met this wonderful person, and now tragedy has to ensue?

I figured we were being punished by the fates, because we'd both said over and over again, "I am so happy. This is almost disgusting, how happy I am." I figured maybe we should have kept our happy thoughts to ourselves.

So yesterday Ned got the bone scan, and I tried not to Google (Attempt not to Google: FAIL.) and we had plans to get together last night. I was all prepared to be cheerful and hopeful and phony as shit all weekend.

When I got back from walking my dogs yesterday afternoon, Ned had called. He never calls that early. I called him back.



"I was just walking the dogs. Someone moved into the dead lady's house. What's going on with you, over there?"

"Oh, I got home from work, got on the phone, napped a bit. Oh, and I don't have cancer."

The doctor didn't want him to have an anxious weekend, and called him before his Tuesday appointment. HE IS FINE! NED IS FINE! Okay, yes, his back still effing hurts and that has to get solved but


I don't care how late he is to get me to go to the movies. I don't care how many previews I miss, or how rushed I feel at the concession stand. I don't care how often he tells me, "You know what I'd do, is I'd eat less and exercise more" when I complain about wanting to lose weight. I don't care how many sporting events I have to sit through, or how many times he changes lanes for no reason whatsoever. (Honestly, what is the point of changing lanes when you don't need to? Are you just seeking adventure? Are you literally afraid of being caught in a rut? What?) I don't care.

Ned is fine.

Beauty products · June's stupid life

Frosty Lustre June

Last night, I got up with my pal Aziza.

IMG_1872She really wasn't about to punch herself. I think she was taking off her purse. I got her the minute she came in. I am annoying.

Every time I've ever shown you Aziza, you say, "Oh, she's pretty. Who's that?" Yeah. She's pretty cause she's a freaking model, who has been on the cover of Vogue. And I've told you this before, but when we first became friends I was stalking her Facebook page, as one always does now when someone meets someone, and how did we stalk people before Facebook is what I wanna know. I mean, when I was 23 I used to park in the lot underneath my then-boyfriend's house and look in his windows, and sometimes he wasn't there because he was at my house trying to look in my windows, and what we had was a healthy relationship.

Once we passed each other, late at night. I was in my car and he was on his bike. "Were you just riding past my house?"


"I was driving past yours. I was thinking of making a cake. Wanna come over?"

So we stopped stalking each other and made a chocolate cake at 2:00 in the morning. He actually knew how to cook, so see? Silver lining. Now I have a lovely relationship but we starve to death.

MY POINT IS, I knew Aziza was a fancy model and on her FB page are some modeling shots from the '70s and '80s, and among them? An Aziza cosmetics ad. AZIZA COSMETICS!!!

AzizaThis is not her, but I TOTALLY REMEMBER this particular Aziza ad. I would PORE over those ads, and I would do EVERYTHING THEY TOLD ME and have stunning peach-and-lavender eyelids. This is one of the reasons it drives me berserk when people say blue eye shadow was an '80s thing. Have you ever noticed people attribute everything to the '80s? Bugs me. I've heard people say the Bee Gees are an '80s thing. They were the quintessential '70s thing, the Bee Gees were. Burns me up.

My point is, the very person I was staring at and doing my blush like or whatever is now a person I know. I mean, how exciting did my life get? Look at the glamor train I got on, here, in Greensboro, North Carolina. Lived in LA for 10 years, didn't meet any dang Aziza model.

IMG_1870Here's me last night and I wonder if I could look more glum. I must be a riot to hang out with. A quiet riot. And as you can tell from both our hair, it was about to rain. In fact, as soon as our food came, it DID rain, and we had to scream inside with our plates.

I got a salad and smothered fries. Shut up.

We talked about smells, eventually. I forget how we segued to that topic, and I really love the word "segued," how it LOOKS like you should pronounced it seg-u-d. It kills me, that word. Somehow I mentioned that I used to work at this place that did presentations, and I had to put said presentations in these big binders that smelled just like a new doll.

"Oh, a new DOLL!" she said, looking Aziza-y. I wonder if she got free Aziza for life? Because I am 100% out of frosty lustre eye shadows. "I always loved the smell of Play-Doh, then it was so disappointing when it tasted so salty."

I mentioned how if I smell Gloria Vanderbilt perfume, I'm instantly back in 11th grade. She said she bought English Leather for her boyfriend when she was 12, and she still loves the smell of English Leather.

"Let's have an agreement," said Ned, when I called him on the way home. "Let's agree that you will NEVER buy me English Leather." You know, I don't think I've ever SMELLED English Leather. My Uncle Jim had bottles of Aqua Velva up in the bathroom, and I used to smell those. I think those came in different scents. Also in that bathroom was my gramma's Jean Nate after-bath splash, and THAT smell takes me right back there to her soft toilet seat and crocheted toilet-paper cover.

Anyway, it was a fine evening, and now I have to put on my English leathers and head to work. It's casual hunting Friday.

I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life

Jun E!

I broke down and got a pedicure last night. I'd been putting it off because I was trying to be thrifty, but things were getting so bad down there I said to Ned, "I'm not even attracted to me anymore, so bad are my nails. I don't know how you can be." I also got everything waxed because if I let all that go too long I start to resemble a shi-tzu.
Shih-Tzu"Hi, I'm June. Has anyone seen my ding-dang nest of spiders?"

Look! I found an Edsel shi-tzu!

Shih-tzu face2edz not shit zoo. edz continyou to luff mom tho.

Oh, and speaking of nests of spiders, I relocated Mrs. Spider and her children, and I felt terrible about it. Ned offered to come all the way over here and do it for me, but I was a grownup


and did it myself with a paper towel. Okay, 740 paper towels. I felt like Mr. Potter or something, all heartless, moving this poor spider mom and her 85838383 children like that. They currently reside on my deck, unless she slithered away and set up house somewhere else. Spiders don't really slither, do they? Someone once pointed out that whenever there're spiders on a show, they play that high plunky violin music. It's like the spider theme music. You know you can hear it in your head right now. plunk plink plink plunk!

I must go shower, and guess who is sick to death of always being busy. Before I go, can I just establish that I never, ever want to hear the term "baby bump" again? I may or may not have been hitting my serious news sites before I got here, such as E!. Did I ever tell you that back in the 2000s, when we all had jobs, I got a call from E!? I love how I have to keep using double punctuation marks whenever I talk about them.

I was working as a proofreader on staff for this court reporting agency. The court reporters would go out, do a deposition somewhere (which we called a "depo." Fancy.) and type it all up from the shorthand gobbeldygook their machines type it into, and then they'd turn in the finished, pretty document. My job was to make sure ALL THE ATTORNEY'S NAMES WERE SPELLED RIGHT, because apparently attorneys have 58 FITS if you get it wrong, and then peruse the thing looking for errors.

You're typing 100 words a minute, even in shorthand, you're gonna make errors. So I looked for egregious uses of the wrong form of "their," for example, or lots of words missing. Because, yes, it had to be verbatim. But it also had to be correct.

If a reporter did a terrible job on her (wait for it) depo, I had to sit there and read the whole thing. I can never, ever give details but because this was LA, I got to read a LOT of celebrity-related depos. Someone fathered an illegitimate child, someone was suing the paparazzi for photographing her naked, someone was getting divorced. Oh, it was fascinating. I mean, sometimes an insurance company was suing a construction company and you wanted to pluck our your eyes so you could stop reading. But oooooo! I had guffs.

Oh my GOD, wasn't I gonna take a shower? My POINT is, one day at that job I got a call. I don't even know how they found me, but they said they were E! and they needed a proofreader and would I like to come work for them.

"Wow. Maybe," I said. "Mayb E!"

"How much are you currently earning?" they asked. I told them. "Are you willing to be flexible? We offer $35,000 a year."

"I'm willing to be flexible in that I'm willing to make MORE than I do now, not less," I said. Thirty-five thousand a year. COME ON. You're E Exclamation Point. You can offer me a lot more than that.

So that's my ¡E! story. You are welcome.

Okay, really showering now. Goodbye.

I am berserk · June's stupid life

Charlotte’s website (and small plates). (I make less and less sense as time goes on.)

Apparently everyone likes talking about cereal. I haven't looked at my actual blog to see how many comments I got yesterday, but based on the rapidity of my email yesterday, it feels like it was more than 100. And now I want cereal.

Anyway, I have to get to work, and so I will share some small plates with you, as it were. You know how you go to restaurants now and they're all, Here are our small plates, which is a clever way of giving you three tuna steak strips and charging you 10 dollars. So for $10 apiece, here is the following info.

I have another Purple Clover article up. This one is about how I like to groom. They've put it under the category "relationships," which cracks me up because the only relationship it's covering is the one I have with myself. Which is long and rewarding and full of lipstick.

My second statistics book in as many weeks is…not going well. I am what you might call burned out. Plus, the Real Housewives keep having reunion shows, so what's a woman to do? I was TRYING to get this book done in a week and it's not gonna happen.

In the middle of all that, I am refinancing my house. I had to go through all my house paperwork and look at teensy paper bugs that seem to know where to find paper and get in there and raise families, and anyway I found some fun stuff about my house. I saw the paperwork of the last time it got sold, when the family who lived here from 1950 to 1993 finally sold it, with their spidery old-people handwriting. And my roof went on in 1997. When should I panic about the roof? Maybe when the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire. You're welcome.

Speaking of spiders, there is a small one behind the door in here who has laid a little ball of a nest, and I fear spiders and sort of loathe them, but she tiny and I've read Charlotte's Web enough that there's no way I can move her. Also, she wrote, "Great hair, June!" in her web so I can't be mean to her now.

I've been putting Iris in the spare room at night, as opposed to the Spare Oom from The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe, and I really don't know what's wrong with me today. I must be having a Wrinkle in Time. Anyway, this morning SOMEONE had peed on the angry chair.

So either Talu is getting up there and very daintily peeing just a touch to get the cats in trouble (I can so see her giggling as she minces down from there all quietly) or it's BEEN LILY ALL ALONG. LILY! What a dick.

That is all my news that's fit to print. Now you've all made me crave Cookie Crisp. Oh, and the person who mentioned the peanut butter with chocolate in it? It wasn't called Google. Google is the thing you use to stalk people and find out if Tony Danza is gay. KOOGLE. It was called KOOGLE.


It wasn't that good. I would not order it as one of my small plates.

Love, Small June

Food and Drink · June's stupid life

Big Fat Fattie asks you about cereal

I have the hiccups, which is a delightful feeling that I hope lasts all day. Once I was at a party and got those really painful hiccups, and this woman–who let's just say made the rockin' world go round–had me lean over the kitchen island as she lay across me with all her might.

My hiccups were cured immediately. I was probably 22 when that happened, and every time I get the hiccups I wish some large woman would come lie on me. Did I mention my softball team?

Dammit. Just hiccuped. God, I hate these. I totally stole the "made the rockin' world go round" line from Ned. Who, of course stole it from Queen. Still. Funny.


Freddie Mercury should really try to be more dramatic when he performs. Maybe punch things up a little. And is he saying he was left alone with Big Fat Fattie? Or was it Frannie? Either way, as soon as someone starts introducing me as Big Fat anyone will be the day I stop popping in to Steak-n-Shake. The day they start calling me Big Fat Fattie is the day I hurl my sizable ass off a bridge.

So I probably shouldn't talk about how I went to lunch with my coworkers yesterday and ordered nachos the size of a car. If I'd been IN my car, it'd have tipped over like when Fred Flintstone orders those ribs at the drive-in. Wait. Did they go to a restaurant that serves you at your car and THEN to the drive-in, or did they just happen to have a drive-in in Bedrock that had waitresses? Because, fancy. And that's a lot of pushing a car with several people and a dinosaur in it with your feet.

Oooo, and speaking of Fred Flintstone–and by the way, I just sat down and started writing. I have no stories in particular to tell you because hello, life of statistics proofreading and regular job and that's it. But SPEAKING of Fred Flintstone, if you were gonna go to the store and get some kind of bad cereal from your childhood, what would you get? Ned and I had this pertinent talk the other day. We also discussed cereal mascots from our childhood, and he had to bring up Dig 'Em, who I'd COMPLETELY forgotten about.

ImagesYou know, he DRESSES like a kid, but he talked like an adult. Maybe he was one of those annoying 42-year-old men who still ride skateboards and wear the ironic trucker hat. Ironic trucker hats are out of style now, right? Please?

Anyway, would you go for Sugar Smacks, which they now euphemistically call "Honey" Smacks? Ned said he'd go for Frosted Flakes, which they've also changed to have no "sugar" in the title. They used to be Sugar-Frosted Flakes. And they were great. Tony was right.

I would be torn between Cocoa Pebbles or Captain Crunch with the Crunchberries that rip off the roof of your mouth.

I want a coin holder that looks like a vagina! Where can I get one? I'll bet those prehistoric "cut outs" were quality.

Anyway, what would you get? We should all go actually buy some and you could send me pictures. Wait. No. Dear god, no.

June and her "coin holder," out.

P.S. My hiccups went away. Oh, thank {hic}–crap.

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life

The elusive bag video

I am worky, in case you didn't know. I did, however, manage to go to Ned's last night, because, you know, he's Ned. The point is, I finally, FINALLY captured his cat walking around with a bag on her fool head.

Even before I MET Ned, he'd told me his cat enjoyed bags on her head. At any given time, you go to Ned's house and he has several iterations of bags on the floor–paper bags, plastic bags, Bilbo Baggins–for his cat's many bag moods.

She's done this since she was a kitten, he tells me, and once when he neglected to leave any for her, she went into the trash in the bathroom, with her cat teeth she picked up the toilet-paper plastic outside wrappy thing that holds your toilet paper when you buy it at the store (what the hell is that called? I think the official name is "toilet-paper plastic outside wrappy thing that holds your toilet paper when you buy it at the store"), threw it on the ground, placed her head in it and walked around. I mean, that cat enjoys a bag on her fool head.

And finally last night, I managed to have the phone close by and get it turned on while she was still bagging. I could show you 84 videos where she's just taken it off, or where she's just left the room or whatever. But here. Here it is. Thirteen seconds of a cat with a bag on her head. The song playing on the radio is perfect, by the way.


You are welcome.

...friend/Ned · Friends · June's stupid life

All This

Yesterday, I ended up talking to not one but two of Ned's old girlfriends on Facebook–one of them even friended me. The other one said she could see how happy Ned was via the six hundred thousand pictures of Ned I've put on Facebook,
1025834_10151718873883850_864353806_oand lemme tell you something. When you have All This, what man wouldn't be happy? I mean, other than my husband who left me.

At any rate, I thanked Ned for banging everyone female all over yonder (or at least in Raleigh) through the years, so I could have fun on Facebook yesterday.

I also recently found a woman on Facebook, Lois, who I was friends with in Seattle, and although we weren't besties or anything–and how much do you want to smack me in the vagina for saying "besties?"–she was pivotal to my whole life. We worked together, and as I'd just moved to Seattle and knew no one, she introduced me to Marianne, who is my friend to this day.

Then we all got laid off, and Lois found me my next job. We worked together at the new place, where I met Paula, who is my friend to this day.

THEN, Lois introduced me to a guy she thought would be perfect for me, and I ended up dating that guy for two years. He's the one who got married five minutes after we broke up, and I like how every time I tell that story, the window of how long it took him to get married gets smaller.

Soon I'll be saying, "He's the one who got married in the living room while I was still sleeping." "He's the one who took me to his wedding on our first date." What I like about myself is my ability to never exaggerate.

So, yeah. I found Lois. I wonder if she'll my change my life dramatically via the Face? Do you think? Or was her magic just happening in the '90s in Seattle?

Other than my adventures with social media, I am pretty much glued to a statistics textbook, and I don't know if I've mentioned how fun and rewarding that is. Well, it IS rewarding, as I will be getting cash money for it, and then I have to give all that money to the government, but at least that stupid debt will be paid off.

Debts are annoying.

I had better go shower and get into my Garanimals, as it's casual Friday but I still like to match, but before I do I'll address more of your "Here's what you should blog about, June" requests from the other day.

What was the best meal you ever had?

See. I know several people, Ned and my best friend Pal From MA included, who concentrate on the meal. Ned will say, "Remember that restaurant we went to in Ohio, where I had the squid?" and that won't help me at all. If he said, "Where that guy was talking to a sock puppet" I'd remember which restaurant. Or, "You know, the restaurant where you really liked that woman's shoes." Then it'd all come rushing back to me. Food? Eh.

I do, though, remember having a dinner at my friend Dot's house, where she made a pork loin, and had I been able to marry said pork loin, I would have. I asked her how she made it and she did that thing good cooks always do: "Oh, I don't know. It was no big deal."  So that probably counts, as does every time I ever had the taquitos at El Azteca in East Lansing, Michigan.

What was the worst wedding you ever attended?

I like going to weddings, so I don't really have a "worst." Once I went to the wedding of a woman I worked with (same job where I met the pivotal Lois from above) and the bride was poor. I think she was a secretary or something at our work and didn't have a ton of cash. The wedding was in the daytime at a church, and the reception was just us in the church basement, no band, no dinner, just punch and cake. Punch and cake.

But you know what? They stood up in front of all of us, in that basement, and each gave a little speech about how much they loved the other person. And they couldn't stop looking at each other the whole time. It was the least-elaborate wedding I ever attended, but the sun shone on them through that church basement window, and I knew it was also the most sincere wedding I've ever attended.

Okay, I'm off. To work and then work after work. I feel not at all like Cinderella. God, where did I leave the keys to the pumpkin?

June and All This, out.

Hair · June's stupid life

Hair. A look into your future.

I turned in that statistics book…and got another book. This one is due in a week. So I will be working 80 hours this week. Guess what I do not have time for. GUESS!

But here. My hair video. Made at Costco in Seattle in 1992.

I will talk to you later. The first person to send the, "Jooooon, where are you?" email gets forced to get the bangs hairdo you will see in this nice video.


Family · June's stupid life

Happy bday, lesbian

Would you like to know what I hate about myself? Other than most things? Is that I realized today is my cousin Katie's birthday. Yes, Katie of "Aunt Katie, are you a lesbian?" fame. I knew her birthday was arriving, but I have been managing to live for a week on $3.98 in my checking (I should write a book on how to live on $3.98 a week), so getting her a gift or even a card was out.

(How to live on $3.98 a week. Hint one: Have a wonderful boyfriend who takes you out to eat. Live on leftovers.)

(Hint two: Have a wonderful boyfriend who takes you to the movies. Eat popcorn for dinner three nights a week. Delicious AND nutritious!)

(Actually, Ned and I have been saying we need to live more frugally, and therefore are going to try to cook more. Travesties to come.)

ANYWAY, the point is, I realized it was her birthday, and I have done bupkis, and I thought, "Well, I'll at least WRITE about her today," so when I sat down at the computer to compose a post, I Googled my blog name and Katie's name, and I see I DID THE SAME DAMN THING THREE OR FOUR YEARS AGO.

So, Katie, I am sorry that you have always been the organized one, and you send me gifts days in advance, and they always sit there wrapped all pretty for me to open on my big day, and year after year there's a big blank spot where my gift should be. I know I am the worst cousin possible. For that I am truly sorry.

KatieI had just turned 12 when Katie was born, as you can see from this fine, clear photograph, and now you know where I get my skillz at photography. Right after this photo was taken, I tripped and Katie rolled down the sandy hill, and really why anyone lets me be around anyone younger than 35 is beyond me.

I was excited that I had a girl cousin, as my Aunt Sue had had a BOY a year earlier, and pfft. Boys. Really, there was a period of five years, there, between 1976 and 1981, where either Aunt Kathy or Aunt Sue were constantly pregnant. And they borrowed each other's maternity clothes, so it'd be all, "Oh, good. The brown shirt that reads 'Baby' with an arrow pointing down again. My, it's good to see that again."

Katieme15So there were many small children running around my grandmother's house for awhile, not to mention many shades of Candies that I wore with nylons, and for some reason Katie and I had a bond. Not Gold Bond Medicated Powder, but better. We felt each other, in that sea of kids.

BestkatiepicWasn't it just yesterday that I said I was in the Fake Smile Girl club? June. Smiling fakely since 1980. At any rate, throughout my teen years and Katie's annoying toddler years ("annoying toddler" is redundant, if you ask me. I'd have been particularly adamant about that when I was 14, as I am in this picture. Because there's NOTHING annoying about a 14-year-old. Nope.), Katie followed me around and thought I was cool, and she was absolutely right. I mean, you know how cool I am now? Was even cooler as a 14-year-old Saginaw gal.

Katieme22Then one day I looked up, and she was cooler than me. And hotter than me. Oh, dear god in heaven. Please take a gander at the peach-colored seed pearl ornament down low and a little to the left, between K and me. I made that in Girl Scouts when I was 7, and my mother pulls that ludicrous thing out every year. Because what says "Christmas" more than orange velvet and seed pearls? Christmas at the bordello. Also, Katie made me that star for my OWN tree my first Christmas in my first apartment. My mother also kept that. She has her hands on some expensive artwork, mom does, with our talented selves around the place.

Anyway. Cooler than me. She was. She still is! And now Katie is smarter than me, and also more mature, which I know isn't saying a lot because you've met me. The kids on Toddlers and Tiaras are more mature than me. Isn't that the worst show ever made? You just wanna smack the moms.

Why can't I stay on one topic, ever? I'll bet Katie could stay on one topic. Especially if that topic is Pixie Stix (see photo above).

Anyway, happy birthday, Katie. I am glad you were born and that you dress like a lesbian. I'm glad you turned out normal despite having me as a role model. It could have gone horribly the other way.


Your favorite cousin, because she's organized and timely,


Ask June · June's stupid life

June tells you about bad dates and marrying her friend Tank

In case anyone is worried sick, I'm on page 198 of that statistics book. Only 102 more pages left! Oh, and could someone stab me in the head? Thanks.

However, I have returned to address more of your "Here's what you should blog about, June" comments from the other day, probably 70 statistics pages ago. I'm like a Native American, over here. Instead of telling the time by moons I'm using statistics pages. Ugh.

See what I did, there? I said "Ugh." A little Indian humor, if you will. Sioux me.

Okay. Here are more of your topics you'd like me to address.

Who would you have over for dinner, living or dead?

I'd probably invite someone dead, because they'd be easier to cook for. Remind me to tell you about Ned and me failing at brownies this weekend. It took two kitchens and 36 hours, and still we failed. We're thinking of opening up a restaurant together, maybe call it Fail. You go in, order something, and order in Chinese for you. Any profit we make goes to muscular dystrophy. What say you?

Oh. And Ned wants me to clarify that that terrible story he told about stealing from children with MD happened when he was 8 or 9, tops. By 11 he was already in a gang knocking over 7-Elevens, I guess.

Speaking of which, my high school boyfriend Cardinal, who has NEVER ONCE been a good influence on me, said to me the other day, "Have you been watching Orange is the New Black?" I hadn't. And now I abhor Cardinal. Because do you know who has a statistics book due in its entirety this week? Do you? Do you know who needs to get on it? And do you know who is COMPLETELY OBSESSED NOW with the show Orange is the New Black? Oh, that show is riveting.

Seriously. He's never been a good influence. He's the one who introduced me to delicious sloe gin and Pepsi. He gave me my first Cadbury egg. He said, "Here's an Edie Brickell tape" and I spent the next decade listening to sad hippie songs. It was he who said, "Come up to my room. It's cooler there" when his parents were out of town one summer day.

Cardinal. Hmph. Oh my god I'll never get through your topics.

Eff, Marry Kill, June. Hulk, Tank, Marty Martin?

Eff Marry Kill is a game Howard Stern plays, and Faithful Reader Jan knows how I am about Howard Stern, and that of COURSE I'd know this game. Okay. I'd kill Hulk, with pleasure. I'd marry Tank, because he's a devoted husband. And I'd eff Marty Martin because he's left over. I know his girlfriend reads my blog, and Kayeeeee, please don't beat me up. It's just a game.

She also asked me Eff Marry Kill about three characters on Howard Stern, and Jan: Eff Jackie.

What would constitute your perfect week? Who'd you be with and what would you be doing?


What was the best date you've ever been on and what was the worst?

I can think of two good worst-date stories. In about 1988, this fancy attorney asked me out. I was 22 and a bartender. I went out and got an adorable outfit I could not afford from Jacobsen's (cream-color croppy sweater with big buttons up the back. Hey, it was 1988. Black miniskirt, black high heels, and long huge black-and-cream earrings. Again, NINETEEN EIGHTY-EIGHT). He got to my house having already been drinking.

He took me to a fancy restaurant in town, and before we went in, he told me this was a lawyer hangout and that I was to walk in on his arm. Like, he was instructing me to grab his arm. "And I think we should kiss before we go in."

"I don't wanna kiss," I said. This pissed him off. I did take his arm when we went in, God knows why, and believe it or not, people would come to the table and say, "Oh, she's a pretty one" like I was his new Sarah Coventry charm bracelet.

I just cracked my own self up. Sarah Coventry. Oh my god.

Anyway, he was still mad about the lack of kissage, and he said, "I really shouldn't have asked you out. I mean, you're white trash. But you're so pretty."

Now, see. Today? I'd have walked out. Called a cab. Called my mother. Something. Instead I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu and ate none of it. He got so drunk during dinner that I was afraid when he drove me home.

Good times! We dated for a year. No. That was it. I heard he went to the bar where I bartended after the date, because let me tell you, he needed a drink to unwind at that juncture. He told everyone it didn't work out.

White trash. What a dick.

Oh, and the other bad date was the one I had early last year, when the guy decided he wanted to be exclusive–with someone else. So he texted her at the table. Yeah.

Best date? Ned.

What was the best vacation you ever went on?

A few years back, my pal Sleeping Beauty was coming to the Outer Banks here in NC. She was renting a house with a bunch of other people and asked me to join her. The morning I was to get there, she called me. "There is a child here who's throwing up. I know this means you can't come." It was true. You know how I am about throwing-up things. 

But I looked around online and found this room in a 1950s hotel nearby, and it had a little kitchenette, and was right on the water, and it was perfect. Perfect! Sleeping would ride her bike the mile to my place, we'd spend the day on the beach or looking around the town–one day we went to a lighthouse–and it was perfect. I got my alone time and I got to enjoy the beach and Sleeping. Plus, I was really thin then, so.

6a00e54f9367fb883401157021ceef970c-800wiWhatever happened to that purse? I liked that purse.

All right, I'd better go get ready for work. I only have six thousand more topics that you sent me, so stay tuned for more! Oh, and I have a new Purple Clover article out.

...friend/Ned · Family · June's stupid life · Marvin

The one after the one where June stupidly asks what she should blog about

I just perused your comments from the other day, when I said, "I'm so worky. Whatdaya want me to blog about?" Why in heaven's name did I think that'd save me any time? Now I've sat here like an idiot for the last half-hour, and written down your requests and thought about all the shit Ima link to and I'm already exhausted. I'm tore up from the floor up.

I have no idea, actually, if that phrase means "tired." I just kind of wanted to say "tore up from the floor up." I recently re-watched Juno.

Anyway, here are the things you told me to blog about.

 Tell us about the Curly Girl method.

No. Go buy the book someone took the time to write. It involves using sulphate-free products, and drying your hair with a t-shirt and not a towel, and not washing it every day. Wait. Here's an unretouched photo of my hair right now, when it looks kind of crappy because I didn't wash it today. I still don't have down the how-to-make-it-look-good-on-day-two thing.

Photo-25Okay, it's a little Jesus of Nazareth-y, but better than it HAS been. For reference, see any picture of me, ever, from before this summer.

Apparently, along with Curly Girl, I am also a proponent of being Fake Smile Girl.

Tell us something about Ned's childhood.

Here is a story Ned told me, and he was no Albert on Little House, is all I can say to you. Except for his raging morphine addiction.

When Ned was, like, 11, he was inspired by kids in his neighborhood who were collecting money for muscular dystrophy. It was during the Jerry Lewis Labor Day telethon. He got another neighbor kid to go door to door, where they collected a ton of money. He showed it all to his mom, who said, "Should I drive you over to the collection site?" and Ned was all, "What, are you kidding? I'm using this money to buy a model airplane!" He was so excited he'd found a way to get rich quick.

You'll be stunned to hear his mom told him to get in the car right that minute and take that money to the muscular dystrophy collector people immediately. Ned wants you to know, in his defense, it was one of the really cool models that actually fly.

I mean, when he puts it that way…

My family's bowels.

Some of you were more on board with this idea than others of you, who poo-pooed it. BAH!

My POINT is, people in my family seem to touch on their bowels as a topic more than other, normal families. And the stories always seem to be of the "I was walking around like a regular human being when BOOM! all of a sudden I had to go so bad" variety.

I mean, why is there no LEAD-IN with my people? Why can't they get a hint of what's to come like everyone else, maybe head off to the loo in good time? But no. Not my family. And I'd JUST HEARD a story about one of my great-aunts, and how she was with another relative, and had that, "All of a sudden I had to go" story that ended in tragedy, which I will not lay out for you. I will not paint you a picture. But that picture would be brown.

So having just heard this story, not long ago, Marvin needed me to go to the DMV with him to sign some papers. First he took me to lunch, and oh how I enjoyed my lunch. Munch munch munch, I said, devouring some Vietnamese food. Munch munch munch munch.

Then we schlepped on over to the DMV, there, and what I have to tell you may come as a surprise. But there was a line. Yes, there was. At the DMV. "Did you make an appointment?" I asked, but it turns out you can't do that here. You could in LA. So we stood there, Marvin and me, and looked at all the dumb license plates they were selling, and picked out plates for each other (I gave him the one about how much he enjoys fishin' and he picked one out about how I can't get enough of my grandkids).

We were having a fine time, when all of a sudden. I had to go so bad.

"Uh-oh," I said to Marvin. And here's when I knew I was related to my family. Because that's all he needed. Was that two-syllable utterance. As though possibly I'd exhibited this behavior before.

"Can you make it? Do we have to go now?" We'd waited so long, and we were close to the front of the line. "I can try," I said, feeling sort of clammy.

We got to the counter and I could not wait to be done. "Hi," said Marvin to the DMV lady, who cared deeply about everything, you could tell. "We used to be married," he said, making a little circular motion around us. A circle of life. BOOM. "Now we're not, but this car is still in my ex-wife's name…"

I mean, dudes. COULD HE HAVE TOLD HER MORE DETAILS? COULD HE? Do you remember how all my Marvin stories ended in me being irritated? Try feeling irritated AND POOPY.

"Were you wanting to know what went wrong with the marriage?" I asked her, eyeing up the area behind her for a restroom. "Not really," she said, never looking up. What she had on her was a personality.

A few signatures later and Marvin got his car transferred over to him. I should have refused to help out, been one of those hellcat ex-wives, but the part where I was gonna Poughkeepsie all over his passenger seat was revenge enough.

"I'll get you home," said Marvin. "I don't want to do any cleanups on aisle four, if you know what I mean."

I see I've already talked until you feel like you're waiting at the DMV, so I'll pick up more of your requested topics tomorrow. On Saturday. When no one reads me. Won't that be rewarding.

In the meantime, could you please arrange to let me keep the change? For my boyfriend. 

June's stupid life · My pets · Proofreading/Copy editing

Blue song

Let me tell you what life is like when I'm doing one of these statistics textbooks. I get up in the morning and try to get a little of it done before work. Then I work at my actual job, and at lunch I come home and work on my statistics book. After work? I work. Now, a grownup would say, "Oh, I don't have time to go to the movies two or three nights a week on top of that" but I do.

The good news is, because I know I have to leave my house at 7:15 p.m. to see these movies with Ned, I work like a DEMON for those two hours and get a lot more done than if I had all night. If I have all night, I Butterfly McQueen the CRAP out of my work. Tra-la-laaaa. Tote the weary load…. Oh, look, I read five pages in an hour. Great.

But I have to do these books, because I owe the government $2,000. Did I tell you that? From last year when I was unemployed. Whenever I got unemployment checks they didn't take out taxes. So. Yeah.

Anyway, this book I'm working on now, and the next one that's coming right after it, will likely get that paid, and also pay back various "we're nice relatives, let us help you in your unemployment" family members.

Debt sucks.

So with all that in mind, I asked you to tell me what to write about today, and I like how someone said, "Write about what the people are like at the movie theater you go to all the time" and I answered in the comments, "I really haven't NOTICED anything about the people in the theater" and everyone else was like, "Yeah! Do that!" after I'd ALREADY SAID I had nothing to SAY about that.

When I was a kid, I'd sit on my grandmother's lap and she'd rock me and sing songs. And I'd just call out stuff for her to sing about, assuming she had a song for everything. I ASSUMED this because no matter that I called out, she'd pull a song out her ass. I was about seven before it dawned on me she was making this shit up.

"Gramma, sing a song about blue."

"….Oh, blue. …Is a color. Oh, a color. Oh, blue."

For those first six years, I was all, God, has she got a repertoire on her. That woman knows every song ever about anything. It's interesting that the Blue song and the Gray song have such similar lyrics. Must ask her about that next rock.

So that's how I felt about the theater patron request. YOU CAN'T GET BLOOD FROM A TURNIP, folks.

I will write down or print out or SOMETHING all your requests so I can address them all, but one of your requests was for how the pets are.
IMG_1820I freaking love Iris. I love the crap out of her. But speaking of crap, she has been pooping on my chair–the angry chair, for those of you who've been around awhile. She was already peeing on stuff, and now this. There's nothing physically wrong with her.

I LOVE HER. But I cannot just live this way. It's disgusting. Does anyone have any suggestions? She has a condo, which helped for a long time. She has two litter boxes. I got her a plug-in that supposedly would calm her. And? Hello poop this morning on the angry chair. Advice, please.

Tomorrow I will tell you a good story from Ned's childhood, as someone asked for that, and IT KILLS ME and he might as well poop on the angry chair, so bad was he, so stay tuned tomorrow.

Oh, blue…

Faithful Readers · June's stupid life

Nobody puts June in a corner

Let me tell you something. This trying to work a regular job and proofread a statistics book in the meantime AND go to every movie at the old movie theater this month is like to kill me. Last night we saw Dirty Dancing. We all burst into applause when he said it. I LOVE IT WHEN HE SAYS IT.


Anyway, tonight's The Princess Bride*, and as such, we will have As You Wish day today. What would you like me to blog about tomorrow? Tell me by midnight Eastern time and I will blog about it tomorrow. Maybe.

*No more rhymes now, I mean it. Anybody want a peanut?

June's stupid life · Marvin

June shows you a video from 1996. No, she’s not naked, ya perv.

Thanks for the recipes, everyone!

I'm going to try to get some freelance work done before I go to work work, and my life is fun. Enclosed please find the video of the first weekend Marvin came to Seattle.

In case you didn't know, Marvin and I dated in college and broke up for 10 years. In that time, he moved to LA and I moved to Seattle. I was 31 and dating a young film student


and that young film student wanted to meet Marvin, who worked in "the industry." Yes, the term "the industry" makes my ass hurt, as well. So I said what the hay. I'll invite my old boyfriend to Seattle, why not? We've stayed friends.

So this is that weekend, October 11-13, 1996. We never did call the young boyfriend. I know. I'm awful. Four months later I was living in LA.


Some of it's dark, and I nagged Marvin to lighten it up, but he said that's just how it is. Whatever with his "8-millimeters is cool" self. The couple dancing at the beginning are his parents, and the part where I'm on the street with a long-haired guy is my old boyfriend Steve, who sometimes comments. Hi, Steve! Steve on film! Steve on film.

Oh, and when we're at the park, there's one part where he's filming me and I remember he said, "Do something," so I fell over dead. Am hilarious. That part is too dark to see, of course. Marvin has always cockblocked my funny.

Okay, that's all. Talk at you.

P.S. Has anyone seen my black stretch pants?

Food and Drink · June's stupid life

Dinner, night deux

The grill broke completely, we had to get more blue corn chips because I ate them all in between Saturday and Sunday nights' dinners, and the recipe I downloaded for raspberry balsamic vinegar was great if you like dressing that makes you suck in your lips like a kewpie doll.

But we roasted the chicken and it was delicious, and we made plans to buy a new grill. I added sugar to the dressing, and now I have to go work. I'm proofreading a statistics textbook this week, so my posts my be scant. Or I might scat instead of post. That'd be a delight for everyone.

Someone suggested in the comments that you all give Ned and me recipes with five or fewer ingredients. Which we will still manage to screw up, but send them anyway.

Okay, THANKS! I will try not to bloop de blee over them as I read them.



P.S. Oh! New Purple Clover article is up!

...friend/Ned · Food and Drink · June's stupid life

Simple-storyteller June

So, get all four pair of glasses, then, because they're all working for me. Was that the general consensus? I tried to leave a comment last night saying, OKAY! I GET IT! STOP! I WON'T GET THE GLASSES! But of course it went to spam. Because I love Typepad. Is what I do. Actually, what I wrote was, "I know you've been sworn and I have read your complaint." Then I gazed lovingly at myself.

Does anyone know what that's from? "I know you've been sworn and I have read your complaint." The first person to guess gets something inflatable that I will never actually send you.

In other news, last night Ned and I tried to cook, which I will tell you about in a minute, in all its disasterousness, but first lemme tell you a story Ned told me while we ate chips and salsa for dinner.

Last week, Ned and I left his apartment together, but he went left and I went right, because I was going to the guest parking lot and he was going to the fancy I-stay-here parking lot. (One time the security guard there asked him, "You stay here?" and we talked about how black people often say "stay" while white people say "live." "Oh, I stay at Fifth and Cherry Apartments." You know you've heard that. Then we talked about how despite all efforts, there's still a big cultural divide in this country. And we were very deep and smoked pipes and appeared on Face the Nation.)

Oh my god I cannot tell a simple story.

After Ned got to the ground floor of the labyrinth that is his building, he saw way down the breezeway a hot woman. "Wow! Who is THAT?" he thought, or whatever awful thing it is men think when they ogle women.

The woman? Was me.

Discuss: Do I enjoy that sweet story or do I get annoyed that Ned was looking at other women, even though other women were me? Am currently in both camps.

Anyway, so last night, Ned the Ogler and I decided to grill out. We'd decided this earlier in the week, actually, because my pal Daniel Boone was coming over to put a fan in my attic, because he's handy that way and my peeling ceilings are bugging him, but then he had to work so he stood us up but we said, You know, we can still have a barbecue even without D and his Boone.

"Let's not make hamburgers this time," said Ned, whose cooking skills are somewhere near the level of mine. Like me, he has approximately two dishes he makes for himself, and most of THAT is cooking vegetables. Which I shouldn't scoff at, because I would not know how to make a sweet potato, which he makes 29 times a week. I mean, GOD made the sweet potato. I dunno how he did that, either. But I don't know how to PREPARE one, is what I should say.

Ned got out his How to Cook Everything book I got him last year, and never have I seen someone utilize a gift I got them more than that. Well. In 2001, I got Marvin the first iPod that ever came out and he used the SHIT out of that. But this book comes in at a close second.

One time my friend Marianne got me a 50-cent pencil that looked like a cigarette, and every time we went out, I'd whip that pencil out my purse and pretend to smoke it. I'd do it all classy sometimes, and other times I'd hold it in my mouth and squint my eyes like I was some kind of tough broad. Which I so am.

The point is, Marianne always said it was the best 50 cents she ever spent. That's kind of how I feel about Ned's cookbook, which did not in fact cost 50 cents but you know what I mean.

Oh my god I cannot tell a simple story.

So he got the recipe for how to grill chicken, which is less a "recipe" and more a "procedure," and come back soon for more air quotes. We went to the grocery store to get corn, chicken and other cooky-outy things. On the way out, we saw a woman dressed in a sari, leaving the party supply store. She had a giant Mylar balloon shaped like a guitar. "I wonder where she's going with that guitar balloon?" I asked, and really where did I THINK she was going? Jimi Hendrix's grave? My point is, Ned said, "Oh. I just figured it was a sitar."

A sitar. Oh my god. First of all, racist much? And second, you get a lot of demand for those sitar balloons. Maybe she was going to George Harrison's grave.

We got back to my house and realized we had no newspaper. Ned went to the corner store and got one. Then we realized we had no limes. I ran to the grocery story and got some. While I was there, Ned called. "Get another tomato (he was making salsa)."

When I returned, we realized we had no ice, and Ned went back to the corner store, and then we noticed the sun was setting and that's right about the time we committed hari-kari and gave up.

"Someone who reads my blog said she can't stand to read about us cooking, because she just wants to come through the computer and say, 'Oh let me do it,'" I told him. "Tell that person she is welcome to take over. I have no problem with that," said Ned, enjoying his chips-and-salsa dinner.

So tonight we're trying again. I will let you know how that goes. In the meantime, I must work on my statistics, and I hope it goes as smoothly as last night's meal.

Love, June.