Hulk's sex life · June's stupid life

The ding-dang battery on my alarm clock died,

which means I just woke up and the dogs aren't even fed yet, which means my life is in chaos as usual and now I feel like Garfield, hating Mondays. If only I had a pan of lasagna to dive into.

So I will just ask, based on another hard-hitting conversation Ned and I had: If you fell over dead today, what sort of horrifying things would your loved ones find when they threw out all your stuff? Do you have a plan in place for this? Does your best friend know to come burn the 800 volumes you've written on why you love Conway Twitty?

You can sign in anonymously if you want, pervy.

...friend/Ned · Drag Queen envy · June's stupid life

My bones and silver purse

I have a cat on my lap and one meowing because she's not on, and I'm a little insulted that everyone seems to think there's room for JUST EVERYONE up here.

But that is neither here nor there. I must hurry, as Ned went home to shower and then we're (brace yourself) going to a movie. I wanted to briefly run down for you my ludicrous night and depressing day.

In what seems to be my new signature move, I schlepped on down to the gay bar again last night

(Ned watched basketball),

in order to see Jujube, who is apparently a famous drag queen, as drag queens go. I guess she's on RuPaul's Drag Race, which I have never seen, and any time anyone remotely implies to my pal The Naughty Professor that you've never seen RuPaul's Drag Race, he gets this huffy look like you've just said, "You know, I never watch the news" or "You know, I don't really give to charity."

So nobody tell Naughty Pro that I've never once watched that show, otherwise Ima hear it from him and his attitude. It's kind of like the attitude I get when someone says, "I don't watch the Real Housewives of anywhere." Oh shut up. YOUR LIFE IS THE POORER FOR IT!

At any rate, not only did I go last night, but so did other people from work, including TinaDoris, who also brought her sister, who was visiting.

We danced to this:

(Ned still watched basketball.)

I did not take photos of my evening because I brought the World's Tiniest Silver Purse, in which I placed only my $10 to get in, my lipstick and ID, in case I went missing and they found my tiny silver purse hanging off my bones later. I had on my gray skirt, the one I couldn't find on my first date with Ned, resulting in me having to wear schlumpy jeans instead but as you can see Ned went ahead and pursued the free milk, as it were.

I also wore my black boots that Marvin always said made me look like a Nazi, and my red low-cut top that showed off the hoots, and hey, 48-year-old. You divining water, there, or…?

When I walked in, rocking out with my hoots out, the local drag show was already starting, and that Gloria Estefan song was on, the one that goes, "One, two, three, four, come on baby say you love me five, six, seven ti-iimes." If I were a drag queen I'd dance the SHIT out that song.

After a few performances, they went back to music and dancing and we all had to wait for Jujube, who was scheduled to come on at 12:30. As you do. It's Gay Time, folks.

The point is, this gave me awhile to become completely obsessed with TinaDoris' sister, who is not only hot, and who not only had a fabulous spangly ensemble on, she was also hilarious and I followed her around like she was me and I was Edsel. I'd have rested my snout in her lap and looked up at her had she let me. Oh my god, she was THE BOMB. She was so bomby that gay men kept asking her to dance, and she'd grind all up on them, and all I wanted to do was grind a gay man.

(Ned was still watching basketball.)

I danced till I was covered in sweat and looked like Meat Loaf in drag. Finally, 12:30 arrived and they told us all IT WAS TIME FOR JUJUBEE!!!!

But first? We all had to leave, because there were too many people in the building and the fire marshall was there, and we all had to re-enter while they counted us, one by one.

Guess who fucked that noise. Was it your old pal, June? I got to my car and saw old Basketball Jones had texted me (had text me), so I went over there, where I was given homemade soup and where Ned's cat played with my tiny silver bag.

Then today, and I like how I was gonna briefly touch on everything, seven hours later. Today the Realtor came over, and yes, that is a proper noun, Realtor is, and she said the ceilings need painted, the front steps need painted and suggested I do this distressed look with them, that the house smells like dog (hunh), the baseboards need work and the arbor needs to be fixed. Other than that, everything is fantastic. And I will not get what I paid for this house, even after I do all that.

Oh, and I have to make the floors shiny, which dude, I have tried to do and never can.

"Does my house smell like dog to you?" I asked Ned, who was here while the Realtor was, and the moment she left he turned on the TV to watch basketball.

"No, but I'm always here," said Ned, his eyes glued to the screen. Ned should just go ahead and marry a basketball. Or maybe he should court someone named Annette.

I just slayed myself with that one.

So, if I do anything, I will just rent out this house, which the capital-R Realtor suggested I could do and probably get a decent price for. I still have to get the dog smell out, and I don't even know how you do that. I'd also like to point out that Houndy and Scenty just rolled through dead leaves on our walk, which probably does not give this place the peach potpourri aroma I was longing for.

Okay, I'm out. Thanks for stopping by for this brief rundown.

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

I got 99 problems and a fish ain’t one

I've had a riveting Saturday so far that has consisted of paying bills and making up a lesson plan for my new student, as part of the literacy volunteering I am doing. I have met the person I'll be tutoring, and oh, I wish I could tell you just everything but (a), I signed a confidentiality thing and (8) it seems sort of rude anyway. Oh, let me talk about someone's literacy behind his or her back so I can be fascinating on my blog! Yeah! You go, June.

If there's anything Ned hates it's the phrase "You go, girl," which of course makes me want to use it Constantinople-ly. Or maybe it's my boss who hates that phrase. I get them confused now because they are remarkably similar in a lot of ways and because thanks to the new open office plan at work my boss and I are right next to each other, which, Dear Boss: Thanks for hampering my Facebook time.

Have you all appreciated how I've stayed off Facebook for Lent? You know who's over me? God.

Oh my shattered ass, NONE of this is why I called you all here today. I CALLED you here to talk about the other day, when I cried and threw popcorn. Y'all seem to enjoy hearing about my more nutbar moments, and this here is one of them.

Since Marvin left while I was unemployed, I have not been what you'd call flush with the cash. And then once I DID get employed again, I had to try to catch up, which hasn't been easy, and I've been paying this mortgage on my own, and see above re "hasn't been easy."

To add insult to injury, I got taxed on my unemployment checks last year (thank you, Ronald Regan. What a stellar idea!) and for the first half of last year, I was working, but on a contractor basis, so none of my taxes were taken out and I was too broke to set any money aside.

So, tight. Is what I'm saying to you. I'm able to pay my bills each month and my credit score is good, but I owe on taxes and I owe one of my relatives and while I'm chipping away slowly at those extra debts, I'm not doing that thing every month where you roll around naked in all your cash and have sex on top of it. Does anyone actually do that? Like, is that a thing everyone really does once they're in a certain tax bracket? If so, please send me photos. We'll have Naked in Your Money Day on Bye Bye Pie.

Now, usually I am okay with this reality. I mean, I do HAVE a job, which is more than a lot of people can say. I have a roof over my head. Okay, a roof I can't really afford, but still. And you KNOW I am stupid sometimes with my cash: fortunately, a ton of you hated your Latisse and ended up sending it to me, which SCORE! So I've not bought a lot of that, but you know I spend a couple-hundred bucks on Botox twice a year.

(Yes, you can get it that cheap. Only go to a board-certified plastic surgeon, but look for specials AND get Dysport, not Botox brand.)

(Rat Poison Tips From June.)

So, normally I am okay. Yes, I am pretty broke, but things could be a lot worse. But last week, Tallulah's vet bill sent me over the top, and payday is Monday and as of Wednesday night of this week I had negative $30. You go, girl.

I had four eggs, seven sticks of low-fat cheddar cheese, some Shredded Wheat, four packets of oatmeal and some Greek yogurt. Oh, and half a jar of spaghetti sauce.

Ned had said he'd make dinner for me last Thursday, and while I did not give him every detail of my sitch, I wrote him, "Oh, good. Cause I'm down to four eggs till Monday." But then at the end of the day, he said, "My brother is in town and wants to have dinner. I know you're meeting your literacy person but maybe you could join us after."

But the thing is, I couldn't, because if I did that, Ned's whole family would have had to wait 45 minutes for me to show up, and I didn't want to do that, nor did I want to feel rushed. It was the first time I MET the person I'll be working with, and I wanted to talk as long as it took, you know?

So that day, I'd had a packet of oatmeal that I had at work, two poached eggs for lunch (I didn't have bread) and one stick of cheese. I felt like Audrey Hepburn or something. Who can eat that little and not want to pop the head off your dog and suck out his brains by the end of the day?

As I was driving back from my meeting, I thought, Ooo! I have popcorn! I know I have a jar of popcorn kernels in the cupboard! I'll eat THAT for dinner! I was getting so excited at the thought. I got home and dashed to the cupboard.

I had? Maybe 30 kernels of popcorn left.

And THAT is when I threw the jar of popcorn down and just started crying. I'm 48 years old and scrounging for food. Sometimes this feels very, you know, discouraging. I was in a serious crying jag when I called Ned, who stepped outside to take my call so he could hear every nuance of my weeping. "June, it's going to be okay," said Ned, who is normal. How many times have I ended sentences with "said Ned, who is normal" do you think? Forty? Ninety hundred?

"I won't let you go hungry," he said. "I'll come right over after dinner, but I have to go now because my salmon's getting cold."

That made me cry harder. God, salmon sounded delicious. I ended up making, in a very small pan, the 30 popcorn kernels, and ate those. They were sort of delicious! Then I boiled the remaining eggs and ate one of those too, making my daily consumption of eggs that day three, and next thing you know I'll be in the prison scene from Cool Hand Luke.

Ned DID come over after and was very nice to me, and the next morning I looked in my purse and he'd sneaked $30 in there, and thank heavens I got paid somehow last night, so I gave him back his $30 I hadn't spent. I managed to live on MORE cheese sticks and yogurt yesterday, then Ned made the dinner he's promised and I was like that scene in Nine and a Half Weeks.

The whole reason I'm telling this story is because (a) I can't wait for the santimonious "I manage MY money, June, and you suck" people to come out as they always do and (2) to tell you the best part.

Yesterday I weighed in at Weight Watchers? I gained half a pound.

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Get Freaky with June: Down by the Old Mill ACCCCK! Edition.

This week we hear from Amy in MD.

I've lived in several haunted houses. The house I lived in growing up had a child ghost. You could never hear it when many people were in the house, but if you were alone in the house and stood in my bedroom, you could hear the sound of a ball bouncing on the front steps. I had this verified by another friend who happened to be in there when we were all elsewhere and asked me why it sounded like somebody was bouncing a ball when there was nobody out there. I found that house incredibly creepy in other ways and hated to be alone there, but most of it was probably my overactive imagination.

The house I rented prior to buying my current house had a long history. Originally a tobacco barn, it was renovated so that the farmer's daughters could live there. It had served as the office for the town newspaper, as a post office, and as a jail. I couldn't keep lights off there. Every day when I came home from work one or more lights would have been turned on.

My current house has had the most active hauntings. It was built in 1871, so lots of time for ghosts to accrue. I've seen several scary apparitions. The first was the worst. I jolted awake, screaming, terrified for no obvious reason. I couldn't remember dreaming. I opened my eyes and there was something between me and the ceiling. Just a dark…something. In the darkened room I should have been able to see the ceiling easily in the light from the street lamp.I was shaking so hard to that it took me a while to turn on the light, but when I did there was nothing. I did the sage blessing thing and blessed the heck out of that bedroom, and never saw anything in it again. But I didn't do the rest of the house.  

A while later I moved into the guest room so I could paint my bedroom, and had a couple of scary events there. I woke up because someone was wiggling my toe, the way my parents used to do to wake me up if they were standing at the foot of the bed. Nobody was there, of course. I sleepily mumbled "Stop it" and went back to sleep. Why that didn't terrify me more than a visual ghost, I have no idea. The next night, I woke up to find a man (dressed like he was in a barbershop quartet) leaning over me. He was standing through the bed — the mattress cut him off at mid-thigh. He was pretty memorable, with his old fashioned mustache and striped shirt. After that I slept with the light on until I moved back into my own room. If there were ghosts in the room I didn't want to know.

The child living across the street whose bedroom window faces mine asked why my light was on all night, and I made the mistake of telling her.  After that I noticed she started sleeping with her light on, too.  Oops.

Most of the activity in my house has happened when I've been doing construction.  It's like the house wakes up a little bit.  After a few months everything settles back down again.  We haven't had any ghostly visitations in years now and I'm pretty happy about that.

June's stupid life · My pets

Shake gently and apply dog carefully

I was so busy with Ned drama last week that I forgot to tell you about Tallulah's brush with death. Which was not even remotely a brush with death, maybe more of a comb with death or even a pick with death.


Nevertheless, the other morning I was in here at the computer, as I am wont to be, probably blogging to all you all as I have done for seven years, and really we're into the eighth year, but I took three months off so I'm still calling it seven years and sometimes I really take too long to get to the point.

Tallulah was under my legs, which were under the table, and sure, sometimes she'll venture under me, but it's usually to just bite on of the cats who are on the bookshelf which is ALSO under this table. There's a whole solar system happening under this table. You have no idea.

But that day, she remained under my legs, and after maybe 15 minutes, because I'm an attentive mom that way, I addressed her. Then I looked for a stamp.


"Talu, what you doing under my legs?" And that was all it took. She jumped right on my lap, and she is not what you'd call a Pekingese. Talu on my lap is sort of all you can handle, when it happens.

Damn. I was trying to find an old photo of Talu on my lap, for visual assistance, and could not. But I did find these.

6a00e54f9367fb8834013488aa6f16970c-800wiThis one was Hulk's fault. He had some terrible hot dog down a hallway ess eee ex joke.6a00e54f9367fb88340120a5dff07a970b-800wiI miss Henry.

6a00e54f9367fb88340133f2b7a242970b-800wiDid I ever actually send an inflatable fruitcake to any winner of anything, or did I just say I was going to?6a00e54f9367fb88340120a61102d8970b-800wi-1

6a00e54f9367fb88340120a8465b10970b-800wiHenry was incapable of taking a bad picture.

Anyway, the dog was on my lap. And she was shaking. Snapping her fingers. It was awful. She never shakes unless someone turns on an evil microwave, which I never do. I don't even OWN one anymore. I held Lu for a long time, saying, "It's okay, Lu," and she shook anyway.

If she were furniture, she's be shaker. If she were a drink at McDonald's she'd have been a shake. If Lu were a song that day, she'd have been Shook Me All Night Long. You get my drift.

I was loath to leave her, and even considered just taking her to work with me and leaving her in the car, and I could look out at her every so often. I figured that'd make her nervous, though, and she was already shaking, in case I hadn't mentioned it. I made a vet appointment for 3:40. Geez. That's instant. Poor dog.

I left for lunch as soon as I could, and she'd stopped shaking and oh, she'd been smacking her lips too. Smack. Smack. Smack. I can't give it away on 7th Avenue. This town's wearing tatters.

So the shaking had stopped, but she was drooping her head and smack smack smacking. Oh, I felt awful for her. Had she been POISONED? As we know, everything is poison to dogs.

Finally 3:15 got there and I screamed out of work and came home to old Lowhead, over here. She galumphed slowly to the car. She laid on me on the drive, her big pitty head on my lap, making shifting a breeze.

We got to the vet and I'd just like to interrupt my dog's illness to talk about the mastiff/Lab mix who was in Room 2. He was approximately 9 million pounds, and chocolate color, and he was lying on the floor with his giant head down on the tile, looking up at me so sad-like. "He's depressed about being here," said his owner. Oh, that sweet giant doggie. I loved him so.

I lusted for other dogs while mine lay dying, but I did manage to take Lu into Room 3. She got back on my lap.

Till the vet walked in.

"HELLLOOOOOOOOO!" said Lu, like she was Mrs. Doubtfire, leaping off my lap and wriggling over to our vet. Oh, she pranced and waggled and put her damn front paws on the vet because she's well-trained, and she sat pretty for a treat and smiled and got out her one-woman band.

DANCING WARDEN 1"So, what, um, seems to be wrong with Tallulah?" asked my vet, as Talu threw confetti around the room. I explained her, um, lethargy and shaking and lip-smacking, none of which were happening anymore. The vet took Lu back to that room they take dogs, where you can't see what's happening and they probably just replace your current dog with a new, healthy one.

Awhile later, Lu zoomed back into the room, grinning and prancing and doing some softshoe and ordering a pizza on her cell phone.

"We didn't find anything wrong with her," said the vet. "That will be $147."

As we drive off, I swear I heard Tallulah giggle.

Family · June's stupid life

Number two post of the day

My Aunt Kathy has a tendency to tell everyone her every move. "I think I'll just get up and get a Kleenex." "I'm just gonna check the thermostat." She knows she does it, and yet she continues to announce everything.

So today she drove to a large store to buy her some new poop scoops, as she has the multiple dogs and it must be genetic, this need to have more than one dog thing. My point is, she drank a large coffee on the way to the store, and then when she got there she announced to the sales woman, "As soon as I'm done going to the bathroom, I'll need you to direct me to the pooper scoopers."

Yeah. And she realized a big crowd heard her, too.

Poor Aunt Kathy.

...friend/Ned · Current Affairs · Film · June's stupid life

Gwynneth Paltrow. Irking me since 1995.

Gwynneth Paltrow is such a tool. I KNEW she and that Coldplay guy were gonna break up, because I'd read rumors of her affair, as I stay on top of the news, and once some celebrity couple starts saying "Oh, we're fine. Nothing could be further from the truth" you know they're doomed. So that was bad enough, but then she had to out out a statement ON HER WEBSITE (tool) saying they were going to "consciously uncouple."

Gwynneth Paltrow, THIS is why everyone hates you. You were baffled by it (I read Vanity Fair, honey) and here is why. BECAUSE YOU SAY ASSHOLE THINGS LIKE "CONSCIOUSLY UNCOUPLE." What a nimrod. Like the rest of us just wake up one day and notice our relationship ended, finally.


Last night, Ned and I schlepped over to Winston-Salem, as we are wont to do 97 times a week. We finally saw the Saul Leiter documentary, and it was so worth it to scream home, feed the dogs hysterically, scream into the car and scream 30 miles to a movie.

Oh, Saul Leiter was the bomb. He said in the movie that he may not like the way he looks once he watches the film, because he looked better when he was younger, "But maybe I'm not being fair to the way I look now."

He was curmudgeonly, didn't take himself remotely seriously and had a lovely cat. Here is a picture he took, which you may think I took, because it looks just like my photography. I wish I had a real camera. Yes, I'm blaming my tools.

Saul-leiter-3-448x660Saul Leiter lived in the same neighborhood for more than 60 years, and mostly what he did was go out and take photos right out his front door. His apartment looked just like my landlord's, Mr. Kaiser's, who had also lived in his place for 60 years. Crap everywhere and you just wanted to start straightening up. But while Mr. K's apartment was filled with old matchbooks from bathhouses, Saul Leiter's was filled with negatives. FILLED WITH NEGATIVES! Just like my brain.

He died in November, Saul Leiter did, and I cannot imagine going through all those negatives and organizing them. Someone much manlier than I am is doing that right now. And I hope someone is taking care of that cat.

Anyway, after the movie, Ned and I went out to eat in Winston-Salem, and someone was sitting in the window of the restaurant, where I like to sit, so eventually I stabbed them with my steely knife. The good news is they served us anyway and we got sent to the back of the restaurant, where Ned said, "Isn't that LaUral, over there?"

Sure enough, there was LaUral, having dinner with someone, and naturally she came over and climbed on my man.

IMG_0101Did I mention the flash on my camera is broken? I should really haul it into Apple, shouldn't I? Or Google it. I did try to Google it, though, and didn't find anything about how to fix it. The point is, those two better consciously uncouple soon.

I have to go and get ready for work in my jeans. I still haven't taken all the dressy clothes out my closet and replaced then with casual-yet-worky clothes. I hope to consciously uncouple my closet this weekend.

Clearly I will never get over this.



June's stupid life · Travel

This tastes awful–here, try it

I wrote something for Purple Clover and pretty much figured it'd get rejected, because it doesn't really have a Purple Clover angle. It did get rejected, so now I am showing it to you. Yay, you get my rejects! Really, though, I like it, my editor liked it, and I hope you like it.

Bookends. My Four Years in Seattle.

I got there by train, because I couldn’t afford to fly, and because I was too scared to drive through the top of America in December. Yes, I chose December to move from my relatively small Michigan hometown to Seattle, Washington. December, the month when families get together and throw snow at each other and exchange gifts and bake with glee. December, when no city wants to introduce itself to you, except for maybe Aspen. All the other cities are flurrying around with their 1960s Christmas lights hanging from downtown light fixtures and gloom in their skies. Moving somewhere in December is like dropping in on someone at 9 a.m. on a Sunday.

But that’s what I did, and I did it by train. The train ride itself was dramatic, with a near-derailment in Pocatello, Idaho and a weird encounter with two girls who’d just left a huge Baha’i convention. You know, I’ve always found the Baha’i religion sort of welcoming and fascinating, because among other reasons I think we should end more words in ’i. But lemme tell you. Those yahoos I met on that train ride were not what you’d call representin’ the Baha’is. They were a couple of screwballs, is what they were. But that’s a story for a different day.

My point is, I wish I had a tape of all the thoughts running through my head as I made that journey. I can’t imagine the trepidation and anxiety and excitement and downright hope I must have had. Since I was 13, I wanted to live in a real city, with tall buildings and weird people and underground clubs and not one person who wondered why I wasn’t coming ice fishing. I planned and I dreamed and I wished and finally, at the age of 27, I saved up $900 and got on that train. High on cocaine.

See. I wasn’t at all high on cocaine. I just wanted to reference that Grateful Dead song. And you know what I was looking forward to? Being able to say something stupid like that and not have everyone around me say, “?”

Where I grew up, in the middle of Michigan, people were…reserved. They were polite enough, but there’s this Midwestern stoicism that I simply never had. I do believe the last word you’d ever use to describe me is “stoic,” unless you went for “athletic.” Or “practical.” Or maybe “down to earth.” But that’s three words. The point is, I never fit in. And I knew I needed to go somewhere kind of big, to meet others like me. I figured the odds would be greater if there were more people to choose from.

I picked Seattle because they read more books there per capita than any other place. And because I like rain. And coffee. And Kurt Cobain. I knew one person in Seattle, other than Kurt Cobain, who of course I did not really know but who I’m certain would have had a great time with me had our paths crossed.

I got off that train in Seattle in early December, and by March I had a really cute studio apartment, a job, a whole passel of friends and a boyfriend. It seems like everything came easier then, when you weren’t looking for a home with good resale value or friends who were on the same spiritual wavelength or whatever. You wanna get a beer after work? Me too! Oh, and look! A place for rent that’s stumbling distance from the record store I like! Sold!

To say that Seattle was a success was putting it mildly. I remember going to an independent film soon after I got there. There was a line to get in, but of course there was a coffee cart for everyone waiting, because god forbid anyone in Seattle go eight seconds without caffeine. It was the first time I heard anyone order coffee in that ridiculous way people do: “I’ll have a half-caf, lowfat latte with light foam.” I was both tickled and appalled. No one here was going to pressure me to ice fish.

I also remember taking the bus to my new job, and seeing cab after cab lined up in the streets. I felt so big city. I felt like I’d done what I’d set out to do. The first time it was sunny enough to see Mt. Rainier, I learned it was possible to fall in love with a city.

Four years later, I left Seattle to move to LA with my then-husband. On my last night there, I went to the train station to pick up a friend who’d come in from Portland to attend my going-away party. It occurred to me I’d only been in the train station on my very first and my very last nights of living in Seattle, like bookends.

I’d pulled into Seattle four years earlier with my nasal Michigan accent, a slightly closed mind and no idea of the kind of adventures I had in front of me. I left there four years later with my same damn accent, but also with a lifetime of memories of fun, laughs, heartbreak and friends I still have today.

The time I spent between those bookends is something I’d never give up. Not for all the half-cafs in Seattle.

...friend/Ned · Film · June's stupid life · Snakes


I'm just gonna go ahead and tell you that when you post photos of your handsome high-school-age sons on Facebook, I am over here thinking impure thoughts. I'm THAT neighbor. "Honey, don't walk past Miss Gardens' place in those shorts. Come home from football practice the other way. I just get a creepy feeling from her."

So, hey, how is everyone? I was busy with Ned yesterday, as I am wont to be on weekends. Yesterday we decided to see a movie that looked really good:


It was 2:15 when Ned and I decided this, and he had about an hour to get home, shower, and drive back here to get me.

That? Did not happen. I feel like Ned has some sort of in-depth exfoliation plan that I know nothing about. What I am saying to you is he does not get ready fast, like a fireman. He told me once about being in an old girlfriend's wedding, so his old girlfriend, his then-current girlfriend and another woman he'd once dated were all planning their day, and Ned said, "I just need to go back to the hotel and take a shower. I'll be fast."

Ned told me that all three women said, "No, you won't" and then everyone laughed merrily, and let's discuss what a stud Ned is with The Many Wimmins O'Ned.

My point is, he got to my house closer to 4:00, looking strangely fresh, like he'd shed his skin.

OH! I forgot! I was making an exfoliation joke, but that reminds me! The other day we were clearing downed branches from my yard, and Ned held up this beige circle. "Look at this!" he said, all proud. "This is a snakeskin! Right in your yard!"

"AAACKKKKKKKKKK!" I screamed, and then I fainted and died and convulsed and cried and threw up and fainted again.

"I'm sure it's a black snake, June," said Ned, like this was great news. "You WANT black snakes in your yard. They keep the rodents down."

You know what keeps the rodents down? The $300 worth of rat poison in my head. It emits powerful rays from my forehead and alerts all vermin not to come in my yard. I do not need SNAKE HELP, thanks very nuch. And I like how people act like I'd take a creepy armless SNAKE over a cute gray mousie if I have the choice.

My point is, we had to go to this movie instead:


I wish I could tell you how I amuse myself by putting periods after the movie, like it's part of my sentence.

Anyway, my. Another uplifting film, selected by Ned. Maybe I should have stayed home and looked for my new snake dweller. The good news is, he hated this movie, as well. Ned did. Not my new snake. My new snake threw a hissy fit that we didn't ask him to come along. My new snake stayed here and looked at dirty movies on my computer. He can't get enough of those come slither looks at the camera.

Oh my god. As I blog, Typpad suggests related links, and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with this information, but I see that the talk about black snakes has brought up a nice reference to where I wrote about Dondi, as you do, in a post I must've called "Ebony Eyes," and I wish I could tell you what a kick I get out of my own self. Ebony Eyes. Oh, I am hilarious.

And let's be sure to read all those horrifying snake stories they want me to link to, as well.

Screen Shot 2014-03-24 at 1.39.01 PM
At any rate, that sums up my weekend, and tonight I am all a-twitter about the Real Housewives reunion, part deux. Am beside self, and plan to wear a tight primary-colored dress and spiky heels, and possibly attempt to grow my hair inappropriately long this afternoon, before I commence to watching.

Life is a sexy little dance, and I like to take the lead.

Love, June

...friend/Ned · I am berserk · June's stupid life

The one where I inexplicably compare myself to 80 famous women

I have been outside all day, clipping hedges and pulling DAMN WILD ONIONS and hauling trash bags to the curb and I really feel like Kat Middleton never has to do any of this. My arms are now shaking from the hedge clipping, and I really feel like Angela Basset would have been able to handle clipping hedges much better than I did.

I don't know why I keep comparing myself to famous rich women. Gloria Vanderbilt would never do that.

At any rate, last night right after work, my coworkers and Ned and I went to happy hour (and by "right after," I mean all the normal carefree people stampeded over at 5:00, and old Mia Farrow with all her children, here, had to go home and let her stupid dogs out and feed them dinner and read them a bedtime story and tuck them in).

IMG_0072The woman at the next table looked an awful lot like my Aunt Kathy, and we wondered if that woman was sharing any poop stories with her crowd. We were tempted to just go over to her and say, "You look like Aunt Kathy. Have you had any unusual bowel movements as of late?" Look at the man next to her. He kind of looks like he's hearing a poop story.

After my in-their-20s coworkers had had enough of happy hour–and I don't know about you but when I was in my 20s, happy hour just went on to regular soused hour, followed by drunky-drunk bars-have-closed hour and hungover noon. I do not understand this generation. Anyway, seeing as two drinks was enough for all of them, Ned and I headed over to my friend Kit's store to look at her wares and say hello. Kit owns a vintage store, and it's full of great stuff, and we were lucky enough to see her newest collection: tons of Playboys from the '80s and '90s.

"Oh, I remember this one," Ned said, picking up a "Girls of the ACC" edition. "Oh, and this one, too," he mused, thumbing through a "Girls of the Big 10 Schools" one. "Oh! And I had this!" he said, holding up the "Girls Who Love Men Who Love Salads" special summer issue.

Sadly, I remembered some of the old Playboys, too, as I went out and bought the one with Cindy Crawford in it, and I remember being at a party paging through the Wow-there-are-Ally-McGraw's-nips one from about 1984.

"Y'all can…take those home for the night if you want to," said Kit, seeming vaguely alarmed by the amount of time Ned and I stayed at the Playboy section. "That's okay. We can just think about these later," we both said, and I have no idea when I got all gay, but there you go. I feel like Ellen DeGeneres would never turn down a chance to borrow Playboys.

IMG_0073After I pulled myself away from reading about centerfolds' turn-ons and turn-offs, I stood in front of this and giggled like an asshole for an hour and a half.

Ned ended up buying for me an old book which I am sending as a surprise to my cousin Katie (it's a signed first edition of that famous tome, Living with a Mom who Talks About Poop), and also a pink peony ring that I admired.

IMG_0087Ned liked it so he put a ring on it. You saw Grace Kelly wearing peony rings all the time.

IMG_0083Afterward, Ned and I got hamburgers (I ate half of mine. Six points.) and went back to his house, where we had two riveting conversations.

Oh, wait.

IMG_0085I forgot I took this picture of myself having a half a hamburger and thought I'd throw it in.

Anyway, we had a long talk about Jimmy Cracked Corn and I Don't Care, and I really can't recall how we even got on that topic, but what I said was, "I have never understood what that means. What the hell is cracking corn?"

"I think Jimmy just took big ears of corn and cracked them in half," said Ned, like that's a thing.

"Really? I just saw him cracking individual kernels," I said.

"That'd be Jimmy smushed corn and I don't care," said Ned, and I really feel like we didn't solve the issue. I feel like Barbara Walters would've gotten to the bottom of this, but we were a lot like the person observing Jimmy. We didn't care.

We also had a very long discussion about would we dig up Phillip Seymour Hoffman and fondle his testicles as they are right this minute, if someone offered us a million dollars to do so, and you don't even want to try to follow the conversations Ned and I have. The point is, I would. He wouldn't. Then Ned told me about a movie he saw once where these guys got a new roommate and the roommate killed himself, and they realized the roommate had a suitcase filled with tons of money, so they decide to dispose of the body so they can keep the money, and they drew straws for which roommate had to smash the dead guy's teeth with a shovel, so dental records wouldn't identify him.

I stared at Ned for a long time. "Why am I not surprised this was a movie you saw?" I asked.

"Whatever," said Ned. "The point is, the guy who did the shovel-hitting never came back from that," Ned told me. "So what I'm saying is, the memory of Phillip Seymour Hoffman's testicles will never fade."

Maybe it's best if you guys didn't know what I do on my weekends. Soon this blog will be one of your turn-offs.

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

June screams over to drop off a Freaky Friday

Sorry I've been too busy to blog. I blame this pesky job and also Ned. But here. Have a freaky story from Outkast Lee.
My father-in-law (FIL) died 9 months after my mother-in-law (MIL). After my FIL's funeral, everyone went back to his house for coffee. I had washed the last coffee cup he used the day before and put it on a high shelf in the cupboard, next to the MIL's cup, They were the last 2 pieces of china from their wedding china and I didn't want anything to happen to them.

I  knew we had coffee, but I couldn't find the coffee. The relatives tried to help me, but after searching every nook, cranny, cabinet and shelf, we still found no coffee. They went to Shoney's for their caffeine fix and my husband just wanted to stay home. We watched TV until bedtime.

That night I dreamed about my MIL and FIL. My MIL has stitches were her neck had been sliced open for embalming (?). She had cut the yard and made raisin pie. She and my FIL were now drinking coffee and eating pie. They were giving me information about money and investing, I really don't remember the exact directives unfortunately. It went on and on.
Suddenly I was awakened by the powerful smell of coffee. I wandered sleepily to the kitchen and flipped on the light. There on the table were the two wedding china cups with coffee residue in the bottom of each one. There was a spoon on the table with a bit of coffee pooled under it. I woke my husband and we searched again for coffee. No coffee. He went back to bed. I washed the coffee cups and put them in a box. I took them out to the garage, just to get them out of the house.The lawnmower was out of place and covered with grass, something the FIL fussed about the MIL doing, cutting the grass and not cleaning it off. It smelled like fresh grass.
When I went back out of the garage, I noticed the grass was newly cut. I didn't sleep a wink that night. My husband refuses to speak of it.
His parents were modest people but it turned out they were misers. They left my husband $335, 00.00! These people ate day old fruit pies they warmed up on the floor furnace and bought 1/2 price dented cans. 
Sad to say, my husband and I separated and I was stuck at the in-law's house. He moved into our house and managed to blow all the money on cocaine for him and all the friends he no longer has. We got back together but he was broke and fresh out of rehab Luckily, I had hidden an insurance check in his name that came in the mail. We were able to sell both houses and got a new house the drug dealers didn't know about with the money from the houses and the check I hid. I always wondered what advice his parents were trying to give me that evil night. If I remembered what they were telling me, could I have avoided the drama?
When we were packing to move, I found a will his FIL had signed the week before he died, leaving all his money to his church. I burned that sucker!
...friend/Ned · June's stupid life

How Ned and I almost broke up. A riveting story by June Gardens and her tears.

When I met Ned two years and two months ago, he told me he'd never married, and what I told myself was, Okay, Missy. What you are going to have to remember is this leopard is not going to change his spots. If someone's gone this long without marrying, you aren't gonna change him, even with the Magic that is June.

So that's how I kept it, and for a long time that was okay. I met Ned just 10 months after Marvin moved out, so for I was content just to be dating someone I really liked. And I was happy to have my alone time, and to see Ned a few days a week.

About a year ago, we talked about how happy we were, and how great it was that we met each other, and how we couldn't fathom what could break us up. "The only thing I can think of is if I get marriage-y," I said. And I worried that might happen. From age 27 on, I was ready to be married. I was excited by the idea of having a person and being someone else's person. I do not regret marrying Marvin. I was happy for a long time. So I wondered if the desire to get married would creep back in.

And the thing is, I love Ned. I love everything about him, even how it takes him eighty-six years to look at a menu. Even how he has to watch every sporting event ever invented in the history of time. I love him. And maybe a month ago, I realized that goddammit, I wanted to marry him.

I want his family to be my family. I want to be his In Case of Emergency. I want to hear every detail about his day for the rest of time, and to watch him grow into a crotchety old man, which should happen in about three months. I want Ned to be the last person I see before I fall over dead. Plus, when someone is as riveting in the feathers as Ned, you don't want to give that up. Ever.

Hi, mom.

I still know that if Ned hasn't married anyone yet, he ain't gonna. So I did the next-best thing. I asked if we could move in together. And he took some time to think it over, but eventually said yes. He said he wanted us to move somewhere bigger than my one-bathroom 1950s ranch, so that his cat could have her own space and never, ever have to get humped by Tallulah.

But the thing is, we said that several months ago and have made no move to do it. On my end, it was because if Ima rent or sell this place? It needs a TON of work. Painting, fixing, things I don't know how to do. I'm overwhelmed.

And I didn't know why Ned wasn't looking for a place or even mentioning it, but it was starting to scare me.

In the meantime, people around us were getting engaged, and one of my friends just met someone 30 days ago and already knows he wants to marry this woman.

It's now been three full years since Marvin left, and I realized what I wanted again was a life partner. Someone I saw every day, who'd help me paint the damn ceilings if they needed painting. I didn't want to be just someone's girlfriend anymore. I don't want to say goodbye to Ned on Sunday night. I don't need a husband, but I DO want to feel like I'm with the person I'm going to be with forever. I want to feel safe in that.

The other night I wrote down every single thing I wanted in a man, and I realized with great sadness that what I wanted was more than I was getting from Ned, who I loved so much. I went to Ned's on Tuesday and didn't sleep all night. I just watched Ned sleep, trying to memorize everything about him. I tried not to wake him while I cried, thinking about how I'd never meet anyone I loved like this. 

I even tried to say, Can't you just be content like this? Can't you just appreciate what Ned can give you, and not dwell on what he couldn't? But I knew I'd be settling for less and I'd get resentful if I did that. I didn't need marriage, but I did need a commitment.

Last night I got ready for Ned's and I was absolutely numb. Tallulah was standing by the door while I was leaving, so I told her the story and she stoically listened to all of it. I kissed her strong Pitty face. "Thanks for listening, Talu," I said, hugging her square head. "You're my best friend."



When I got to Ned's, he came to the door in his workout clothes. Did he have to look so damn cute? I would never find anyone who appealed to me the way Ned did.

I asked him to sit with me, and I was shaking while I told him I was not happy, and that we wanted different things, and that I was so very sorry.

"Are you breaking up with me?" Ned asked. I couldn't even get any words out. I just shook my head and held his hand.

Ned was calm. "Is that really necessary?" he asked.

Hunh. Well, I'd THOUGHT so. I'd worked myself up into a lather thinking it was so.

"Well, I guess I could tell you all the stuff I want. I wrote it all down last night, so I have a pretty good handle on it." So I listed off the things I wanted from him, and one by one we went down the list, and discussed what he could and could not do on that list, and it turns out?

He was willing to do all of them. I didn't ask for marriage and he still doesn't want to get married, but he's willing to move in with me, like, now, and help me with this house so we can rent it out, and see me as often as I want in the meantime and you know what?

I had no idea how much Ned loved me. I really didn't. I thought I would tell him how much of his time and his life I wanted and that he would balk. Turns out he was completely fine with giving me all that. I was just, I guess, not really asking for it.

"I don't know why you're surprised," said Ned, while we had celebratory potpies, because that's what you do when you near the brink and come back stronger with someone. "I really fucking love you."

And I really fucking love him.

I hate everything · June's stupid life

June Bright and Dark

I am feeling blue again. I was thinking that, in order to cheer up, what I'd like today is for you to say something nice about each other in the comments. If you always laugh at one commentor's hilarity, or you think about another's problems even when you're not here, let us know.

Or here's another challenge. Go to my comments and say something nice, just one thing, about someone you don't like. Anyone in your life. A coworker, a relative, that idiot at the grocery store. Find the good in that person and tell us what it is.

Okay, go.

I hate everything · June's stupid life

Life is just a fantasty, can’t you live this fantasy life

If you didn't have to be living your regular life today: going to work, slopping hogs, shooting up, taking kids to school, being a prima ballerina, robbing a bank, managing a 7-Eleven, doing six loads of laundry, doing green Jello shots…If you didn't have to do any of those routine things and you could be anyone or anywhere, what would you be doing today?

I would be 35 pounds lighter, lying on a yacht in the South of France, with Jake Gyllenhal bringing me eggs benedict and an emerald. To celebrate St. Patrick's Day.

What's sad about my scenario is I just wrote that down and thought, God, eggs benedict sound delicious. Like, that was the BEST PART to me. Which explains why I don't weigh 35 pounds less than I do.

Okay, you?

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

A whole new world

It's Sunday afternoon, and it's raining, and this is the time of week I love. I adore Sundays, and I guess it's because I'm lucky enough to not hate my job. So I don't get that awful Sunday Wonderful World of Disney feeling where I dread the next day.

It was a busildy weekend, and in an hour Ned will be back over here to go to a movie. For a change. We thought we'd see how we enjoy attending a movie together. Once I tried to figure out how many movies we've seen, and I know it's more than 100 in the last two years. When we first met, and had had maybe two dates, I ran into him at the theater. If we ever break up, god forbid, Ima have to start going to movies on Wednesdays in order to avoid him.

Do you enjoy my cheery personality? I love Ned, and yet I have a Ned-avoidance plan for if we ever break up. I used to look at my beloved cat Mr. Horkheimer and picture his demise, too. "Oh, look at him," I'd think. "I just love that big solid cat so much. One day he'll be dead."

Nobody wants my brain. Nobody.

At any rate, yesterday afternoon I got up with one of my TinyTown friends, and it was delightful. He was in Greensboro to shop for something you can't buy there, which pretty much includes anything you can't get at a Walmart. So after his shopping extravaganza, he came over and we headed downtown to eat lunch outside, because it was nice out.

The whole world was eating outside, because we finally could. I slid the cucumbers off my sandwich and admired the dogs people had with them. IMG_0030I wish I had the kind of dogs you could bring to a restaurant, who would not spend the whole time barking and glaring and grimacing and shooting cannons at the other dogs.

"You don't like cucumbers?" asked TinyTown pal.

"I see no reason for them to be invented," I said decidedly. "I guess you don't like cucumber sandwiches, then," he offered, as if this comes up for me a lot, seeing as I'm at every tea and garden party in the area so much.

"Those I can get behind. I mean, you can barely taste the cucumber, Plus, cream cheese. And I'm classy, too." It was at that moment that I gestured and spilled my Coke clean across the table, all over everything, including my child's menu and crayon that I had specifically requested. (That maze is a sonofabitch, and if your child can solve it he needs to be in MENSA.)

We sat in the sun, and gossiped about TinyTown, and caught up on each other's lives. "Aren't you going to eat your pickle?" TinyTown wondered. "Oh, RIGHT. It's a cucumber!" he said, sliding it off my plate.

Truthfully, I don't mind a pickle. I guess my abhorrence of the cuke is mighty selective.

On our way back to my place, my phone rang and it was Marvin. "I'm driving though town! Are you home?"

So that is how I replaced one guest with another. Marvin pulled up as I was pulling wild onions out my garden, and if anyone knows how to get rid of GODDAMN wild onions, please alert me forthwith. "Are you in the same place you always are, then?" Marvin asked me. In the final days of our marriage, I may have…spent much time in the garden so I wouldn't have to talk to Marvin. It's sad, but my yard never looked better.

IMG_0036Tallulah was ridiculously happy to see her daddy, and I remain guilty that I gave my pets the same hand of cards that I was dealt: being from a broken home. Poor Tallulah.

IMG_0026Iris, who never lived with Marvin, didn't give two shits that he was over.

IMG_0020grow pair, talu. chit happenz.

As soon as Marvin was gone, Ned was here, because his Important Basketball Stuff has come to a close. His team, which is…um, red, I think, lost whatever it is you lose and he was sad, Ned was. I hate to see Ned sad. So we made out. Because I am the ultimate consolation prize. I am the Rice-a-Roni.

IMG_0050Then we got in the car and headed to Winston-Salem, for a change, and got up with Faithful Reader LaUral and her husband, Gumbo.

I just made up her husband's name just now and am so in love with self that I may have to write a sonnet on a doily and mail it to me with a dozen roses.

IMG_0046LaUral and I got blackberry juleps, and they were goddammit good. Ned said there was a lot of estrogen in those glasses, but I'll have you know he took two sips of mine. Because, goddammit good.

IMG_3111I don't know if I told you how many branches fell dramatically in my yard after we had an ice storm recently, but a lot of branches fell dramatically. One fell and IMPALED itself into the ground, like a whole new tree.

A WHOLE NEW TREEEEE!!!! What is that stupid song? Is it from Aladdin? Why do I even know that song?

My point is, the branches needed gathering. And I needed someone manly to do the big ones.

IMG_0053And that man was Ned. Oh, he was back there sawing and dragging and hauling and so on. I was back there, too, picking up the twigs like it was exhausting. The dogs ran back and forth, following Ned as he dragged huge branches.

"The dogs seem to be your branch managers." I said. I've named bench in a park after myself, and soon will pay for my own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. "Have you been waiting your whole life to say that?" asked Ned, who seems less pleased with me than I am, and that is his personal failing. I can't help it if he doesn't know funny when it's Shekky Greene-ing him right in the face.

So that was my weekend, so far at least. I will alert you if anything else happens, such as if I'm hilarious again. Which, come on. I can't help it.

Socially, June

Drag Queen envy · June's stupid life

June goes dancing with the Naughty Professor. A gay old time.

What I did not know about gay bars here is that they have dancing boys. Wearing just skimpy underwear. And put down the phone. I don't mean they were seven years old. I mean these boys were born in 1991, as was the person standing in line behind me to get in to said excellent gay club I went to last night.

I KNOW, man! By 1991 I was a fully formed, destroyed person.

Also, when you go up to slip them a dollar, the dancing boys, you don't have to be all polite like you do at a strip club with those pesky, fussy women. You can lie on top of them, or pantomime oral sex, or just hump them in general. Yes of COURSE I did all those things. Because there's nothing a hot muscled 21-year-old gay boy likes better than Delta Burke, over here, humping on him.

When we first saw the dancing boys, Naughty Pro stopped short. "Do you have any smelling salts?" he asked me. "I'm not sure my heart can take this."

So, yeah. Yesterday I asked the Naughty Pro, my friend from work, if he'd like to go out dancing, as there is some Very Important Basketball Event going on in Ned's world and basically Ned is dead to me till Monday. And because the Naughty Pro has zero interest in sports–and that is why God put gay men and Marvin in this world–he said yes of course he would.

"You know, things don't really start up till after 10:00," he warned me.

"Yeah, I figured that, so I plan to take a disco nap after work." And I did. Talu and I got right up on the pillows and took us a hard snooze for maybe an hour. Then I got up and commenced to putting on seven feet of makeup. Because if there's anything muscled 21-year-old gay boys care about, it's how much makeup old Judy Garland is sporting, over here.

IMG_0003I love everything about this picture. I love that I'm taking an asshole selfie in the mirror, I love seeing all my beauty products ("all" is a strong word. I did my makeup at my magnifying mirror, in the computer room, so really this is just the dregs), I love my slutty heels, which was the point of this shot, and my also-rans clothing choices strewn hither and yon.

And I love how Talu has already made her pillow nest, because you wouldn't catch her at a gay bar in the middle of the night for all the kibble in the world. Talu arbors loud music.

Oh, and my nice blind. With the broken part from where Edsel sticks his snout through to yell at cats in the bushes.

Anyway. The crowd ranged from hot young boys born in 1991 to old men with earrings to really beautiful drag queens, one of whom if I could have taken her I'd have stolen her high-heeled, to-the-knee boots and pink Guess hobo bag.

And we danced. To people I always hear about but never actually listen to: Nicki Minaj, Rhianna, Cher.


And we listened to this, which I liked so much I wrote it down in my phone. Because I'm tech-y like that.

Oh, we had fun. "Wouldn't it be nice to bend over and have your stomach stay flat?" I screamed at Naughty as we watched the dancing boy move. We both agreed that would be lovely, and that we hoped we weren't huring a hip dancing so hard.

There were straight couples, threesomes who were going to be threesomes in a bigger way later, lesbians, pretty boys, friends like Naughty and me, all dancing. "I'm so glad I'm not in a Muslim country," said Naughty, looking around. "God bless America!"

"In nine months, that wall is gonna give birth," I said, watching the dancing boy onstage get to know the curtain behind him a little too well. I told this to Ned several hours later when we talked on the phone in the wee hours. "You're assuming that was a woman wall. It was probably a gay male wall." He's probably right.

So, yeah.

IMG_0014We're definitely going back. And maybe next time I'll have fixed the damn flash on my phone.

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Get Freaky with June: Transsexual Fish Edition

It's Friday, so it's time for another of your freakazoid stories. And, yes, I too love me for saying, "freakazoid." While we're at it, let me tell you that there's no parking, baby. No parking on the dance floor.

Anyway. Before I turn you over to this week's story, let me tell you about the deep and abiding love my dogs have for me. Which by the way is impressively deep. And abiding.

I went home for lunch on Thursday, as I am wont to do because I live close to work and that is a luxury I am still not over, having lived in LA for so long. So, there I was, eating my Weight Watchers-approved lunch of air and plain water, and I decided to turn on the TV. If I'm home at 1:00 I can watch Sex and the City, for a change, because I don't know every episode within the first 10 seconds of watching one or anything.

But I was home at noon, so instead I flipped around, not literally, and found Marley & Me.

I don't know if you recall when I saw it in the theater, but it was not sophisticated. I was still married to Marvin, and the mob. My mother and stepfather had come for Christmas. While they were visiting, I'd requested we see Marley & Me, since my mother has dogs and so do I and so on. But they wanted to see Milk, the movie where Sean Penn is a gay guy.

"We can go to the refrigerator and see milk for free," I tried, but everyone had to be all thinky and liberal and enjoy the shit out of a gay guy being killed. Afterward, we all listened to NPR and drove hybrids and gave peace a chance.

As soon as my mother and stepfather were gone, I said to Marvin, "Let's go see Marley & Me." But Marvin was teaching then, and he was sick every five minutes with some new thing a germy child had given him, and he very dramatically splayed on the couch and droned on about his sickyness. So I went without his punk ass. I shoulda just called Ned.

Do you ever do that? Do you ever think about times before you knew someone you love currently, and think about how you were once at that restaurant six seconds from their house, or that you know for sure you were at the same event once? Or do you ever think about a time you felt blue, and if you'd only just known your person back then, you coulda called him or her and things woulda been better?

Well, I do. But I'm a freak. Azoid.

The point is, I went to the movies, and it was still Christmastime, so the theater was packed with families seeing films, and there I was, completely alone, and I recall my hair was particularly dreadful that day, as I did not know the Curly Girl Method yet, so hello frizzazoid.

I hate to break it to you, but eventually in that movie, the dog dies. Okay? He dies. And other people in the theater were sniffing politely, getting out tissues as unobtrusively as possible. And I


Dudes. I was crying so loudly, and so ludicrously, that people turned to look at me. When the lights went up, I got my sobby fright wig self the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

And do you think my second viewing of that movie yesterday was any better? As soon as Marley started slowing down, I got teary. Then when he got sick, I started crying. By the time that dog actually expired, I was crying so hard I thought I might barf.

The whole time this was happening, Tallulah remained in bed, where she was having her afternoon nap, as opposed to her morning nap and the one she likes to take after sunset, just before bed. I was crying so hard that Edsel didn't even understand I was calling him. He'd been sunning himself on the deck.

"Edddddddd{hic!} Edshuhuhuhuhul! Come here, Edsss-sobbb!" Eventually, he caught on, and came trotting in. He finally remembers that he learned how to open the screen door. He'd taught himself to do it, taught Tallulah how to do it, then completely forgot he knew, and for about a year would just stand underbitedly at the door after Talu had opened it with her snout.

Anyway, he trotted in, took one look at my contorted face and trotted right back out again.

IMG_2535edz luff to stay and chat, but he gots…theeng to do. sy co mom.

I mean, isn't the POINT of a dog that he's THERE for you when you're crying hysterically over an Owen Wilson movie? Why else do you tolerate the dirt, the barking, the eating of cat poop, and the fur fur fur all over the place? Isn't that their ONE redeeming quality?

IMG_1885yuu rayse good poynt, mom. lu theenk it….it…..zzzzzzzzz.


Okay anyway, on to Freaky Friday, written this week by my pal Sleeping Beauty. If you have a strange story, email it to me at


About 10 years ago I was on a shoot for a National Geographic documentary about transsexual fish (don't ask). We were filming a little fishy colony off of Catalina Island with some scientists. You may remember Catalina Island as the place where Natalie Wood bit it, and you may also know that there are sharks in the deep waters surrounding it.

I was the only member of the film crew and scientists who didn't know how to SCUBA dive, so while everyone was SCUBA-ing down below our dive boat with the transsexual fishies, I was snorkeling around the boat by myself.

The water was a beautiful light blue milky color reflecting sunshine, and tall stands of flowing kelp were all over the place. I'm paddling around enjoying the water when suddenly I get a bizarre and indescribable feeling that I need to get out of there right away. No reason—I didn't see anything menacing or unusual; just the sun shining through the blue water and the kelp fronds here and there. But something told me to paddle back to the boat NOW. So I did, and I scrambled out of the water and into the boat as fast as I could. I never saw anything, and my colleagues soon resurfaced.

Next day we got a report there had been a great white shark attack in exactly the area where we were working, maybe a half hour after we were there. I also learned that sharks cannot only receive electrical signals alerting them to other animals' presence—they can send them too. I'm fairly certain that indescribable feeling I got was an electrical pulse sent from a great white shark, probably just feet away from me in that milky blue water off Catalina Island.

June's stupid life · Sports


My iPhone, which I purchased last summer, has done nothing but give me trouble. Sometimes I wonder if they sold me a repurposed one and didn't tell me. They probably giggled when I walked out. The latest issue is that (a) it wouldn't charge back up and (2) it kept telling me I had no storage left. I didn't even put my EASTER decorations in there, much less Christmas. I was thinking of storing all my not-needed-now black work slacks in my iPhone, but I guess not.

The point is, I spent a good hour on the horn, my quickly dying horn, with Apple Care last night, and they determined (a) the power cord I have is no longer good, which is hilarious because I used to have dangerous wirey-hanging cords constantly when I had Roger, as he enjoyed chomping him some cable, and yet the cords continued to work. Now these cats care not a whit about this plug and it died, unchomped, anyway and (2) my whole phone needed resetting or something. Again. I've done 256 hard resets on that damn phone in less than a year. That phone has done some hard time.

After Apple Care and I yakked endlessly on my losing-power mobile, while we laid on the floor with our feet up and bottles of Pepsi with straws in then, I had NO phone, and no way to get ahold of Ned to tell him I was on my way to his place and please let me up in the labyrinth that is his gated apartment complex which apparently houses Prince, so tough is it to get into. I won't bore you with the details (as opposed to all the details I've left out so far) but eventually we got it worked out and I used Ned's cable, so to speak, to recharge my phone.

And after all that I left my phone at his house.

No. I never WILL get over using the Price is Right losing horn for dramatic effect. And I like how the most fancy, protected, needs-a-gate person I could think of is Prince.

Anyway, I did eventually get up with Ned last night, and we decided to pop over to this tavern near his house, which was my suggestion that had nothing to do with said tavern's spicy jalapeno hushpuppies, and hello WW points. When we walked in, some guy was setting up a speaker.

"Oh, this isn't good," we both said, being old and detesting bands when we're just trying to consume fried balls of bread.

But it wasn't some stupid local Captain Dick and the Portholes or anything like it. It was a trivia contest, and one of my young hot Alex coworkers was there with her husband. "Would you like to play trivia?" asked the guy with the speaker. "Oh, no–" "It's free!"

And that is how Ned and I ended up with a pen and trivia form, even though neither one of us remembered reading glasses, and please see above reference to being old.

"Pablo Picasso was questioned when WHAT was stolen in Paris in 1911?" said the guy with the speaker.

"The Mona Lisa?" Ned looked at me, the person who wishes she'd majored in art history but instead got that super-practical English degree and look at me now.

I looked at Ned in a way that a…certain female relative of mine, I won't say who because I don't wanna HEAR it from her, looks at me. The…certain relative can sometimes act as though she knows absolutely everything, and gets a very superior tone, even if she's saying, "Liberace loved him the ladies."

"The Mona Lisa was never stolen," I said, sounding distinctly like my…relative. "Put down that a Monet was stolen. That's my best guess."

"The Statue of Liberty has how many prongs in her crown. Five? Seven? No prongs?"

Ned looked at me once again. He'd answered all kinds of basketball and political Qs without even glancing my way, which, pfft. Has he not met my vast array of knowledge?

"Five," I said. Getting The Tone again.

The trivia guy took our ballet, which we'd named Team Henry & June. We loved ourselves.

Ned got all of the basketball Qs right, and it turns out the Mona Lisa was stolen in 1911. And? The Statue of Liberty has seven damn prongs.

"GOD, JUNE!" said Ned, getting his flared-nostril look.

"In first place is Team Lentil!" said the trivia guy. "In second place is Team People Making Out at the Bar! …And in 397th place, Team Henry & June!"

"WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME PUT DOWN THE MONA LISA? GOD." Ned pushed our form away disgustedly.

"I knew about Madeleine Albright!" I said. The reason I knew Madeleine Albright was the first female Secretary of State was because once, my ex-best friend and I were paging through Victoria's Secret catalog at my mother's kitchen table, discussing the subtle nuances of Stephanie Seymour and Linda Evangelista.

"You two, who is the Secretary of State?" asked my mother, in what may or may not have been kind of a superior tone. So my ex-friend and I looked it up and went back to discussing Stephanie Seymour, who by the way still looks good. Does Madeleine Albright? So there you go.

"Wow. I've never played a game with you before. Turns out I hate it. Are you always this competitive?" I asked Ned, who was eyeing up the Lentil team to see if he could date one of those brainiacs.


And that's when I remembered Ned is sportsy and probably enjoys winning, even if all we're winning is the glory of a Wednesday-night trivia contest at a place that sells Jäger on tap.



Beauty products · Faithful Readers · June's stupid life


One of my male friends emailed me the other day. "I feel like only you would appreciate this," he wrote, sending me a NOT SAFE FOR WORK website.

So if you're at work, Ima just tell you. It's a perfume, called Vulva: Scent of a Woman, and it has…the scent of a woman, I am not kidding. That's what it's supposed to smell like.



I wrote him back to tell him–well, mostly to tell him there was something deeply wrong with him. And one wonders, really, how he came across, so to speak, an ad for this product. And then even more disturbing, what made him say, "Oh, June! She'll appreciate this!"

Maybe it's the fact that I did. And that the ad for it tickled me to pieces.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? Are there men and women really stampeding to buy the Scent of a Woman? What the Sam Hill?

"Also, why do you have to buy it? Don't you already manufacture it?" asked my high school boyfriend Cardinal, with whom I spoke later that day. We discussed what the Imposters cologne for Vulva would be called when you went to Rite Aid. "If you like Vulva, you'll LOVE Cooter!"

So that's the kind of stuff people email me about. You probably still get those chain emails where you'll be blessed by an angel if you forward this to 15 people.

Would you like to know what irritates me? I mean other than the part where I wear Taylor Swift's scent of a woman and no one follows me at the gym and sniffs my bike seat. What irritates me is on Facebook–where I do not go during Lent but I still have recall, for heaven's sake–when they make you feel bad for not sharing something.

Share this if you hate murder! Then you feel bad for not doing it and looking like a real murder-lover.


Or how about that creepy one moms put up about how they will catfight any woman who tries to date their son? Does that one strike you as just a tad over the edge? RULES FOR DATING MY SON, WHO IS CURRENTLY 8: IF YOU WEAR SOMETHING SEXY ON A DATE WITH MY SON, KNOW THAT I WILL EAT YOUR INNARDS!! A SON IS A SON FOR LIFE! HE'S MINE!!! MINNNNE!

Maybe I don't miss Facebook quite as much as I thought I would.

Also, I have heard from quite a few of you that your dang comments are not showing up on my blog, AND they're not showing up in spam, and Typepad is doing the thing where they ask me 400 questions and try to make this mishap my problem, then they do what they always do, which is, "We looked into it. Found nothing."

Yeah, okay. Thanks.


Speaking of commentors for life, Matze is back. Matze is a guy from Austria, and he used to comment on here 490 times a day and he was highlarious and he was mos def Team Edsel, which throws everything into disarray, and if there were such a thing, he'd so have I LOVE MY BLOGGER'S DOG, SHARE IF YOU LOVE EDSEL on his FB wall, Matze would.

The point is, he went away two and a half years ago, and came back yesterday and sat there in Austria reading two and a half years of June, and, you know, a lot's happened in two and a half years of June. So last night he wrote me that he's glad I have a Ned, and sorry about Roger, and yay, Murdery Iris, and so on. There was a ton to acknowledge. I have missed Matze. He was a hoot.


Okay, I'm done saying that. Matze, I will totally send you a bottle of Vulva to welcome you back. I know you'd be super into that.

I guess that's all I have to tell you, but I really think I have told you enough. I have to go get ready–OH! Wait! I was going to make a side-splitting let-it-release-the-splendor-of-me final perfume joke, but I forgot the big news that we're going to all-jeans-all-the-time at work!! They just announced it yesterday! I cannot wait to put all my damn black slacks in storage, lest I get laid off or something awful and have to work at a dressy place again someday. Of course, the way I'm dramatically shedding pounds, I'll need all-new black pants. Maybe I could just buy a Barbie and use hers, I'll be so small.

Anyway JEANS! Ima revamp my closets this weekend, as Ned will be involved in watching some kind of basketball thing, anyway. Oh, it's so exciting! Stay tuned for a pictorial. A jeans pictorial. What kinds of things should I buy to accompany my jeans look? This'll probably be harder than just getting dressed up, which I do without thinking about it at this juncture. I got to wear whatever I wanted at the ad agency I worked for in LA, and it was a competition, I tell you, a competition, to be the coolest-dressed person at our 9 a.m. meetings every day. I remember the extra bitchy chicks giving the up-and-down eyes to each woman who'd walk in, and one sensitive soul saying to me, "Nice necklace. My 11-year-old has one."

Okay, it was a sparkly Hello Kitty head necklace. Still. Click Like if you think that woman maybe needed to lighten up. Click Like if you think maybe she should get her some Impostors C U Next Tuesday perfume.

June. Giving you the V for Victory.