Beauty products · Drag Queen envy · Hair · I am a pleasure of life · June's stupid life

If I kin hep ya

I don't want you to get too excited, and I realize you still have to concentrate on your families and jobs and so on, but I have an exciting update: I'm trying new deodorant.


I ran out of the stupid Secret roll-it-up-till-some-squishes-out-the-slots kind that I HATE, because it gets gummed up. So, last night, after I had coffee with Tall Boy, I stopped at CVS.


I know. I totally need to get past the senior picture poses. Now I'm forcing my friends into it, which, if you're my friend, you pretty much know you'll be doing something stupid. The Tall Boy got a chai latte, then afterward he scrubbed his vagina. I had a peppermint tea. The manly drink of choice at the coffee shop.

SO AFTER, I drove the interminable drive to Kaye's, which, Dear Kaye. Why? Why do you want to live in Tibet? Also, Dear Kaye, Thank you for the free place to stay for six weeks. Maybe I could shut the fuck up.

So I stopped at Outskirts of Town CVS, for all your outskirts needs, and you know how the new thing with stores now is they bellow at you when you walk in the door? "WELCOME TO MOE'S!" "Welcome to the coffee shop! We have buy one get one on chai lattes for your girly-man friends!"

Does anyone in the history of time like that or find it useful? The only people who like it are money-hungry marketing execs. I just said "execs." Who am I, TMZ? Baby bump. Gal pal.

"Welcome to CVS! If I kin hep ya, I sure will!" some poor person bellowed as I walked in. "Thank you," I said coldly, and I am the very person from the north that Southerners hate. It wasn't till I decided to just poke my head in the eye shadows that I glanced at the sales lady who'd yodeled at me.

Mother of God.

She was 70 if she was a day, and she had a HUGE wig on, Marie Antoinette huge, and it was curly and gray. Imagine if Ellie May Clampett went gray. I love that she went with a wig, but decided to stay gray. "Oh, you'll believe I have 50 feet of curls like I'm going to 1961 prom, but I know you know I'm gray."

Sometimes my Aunt Kathy and I will be being absolutely hilarious about something, and my mother hems us in with her Mature Voice. Her Voice of Reason. Her No-Shenanigans Voice. It's the biggest buzzkill in the world. As I perused the eye shadows, and now that I own The Nakeds I really have no reason to look at eye shadows again, and its like when I was happily married and literally didn't notice other men for 10 years. I don't even know why I was trying to get some eye shadow strange, because I really wasn't.

But as I perused uselessly, I got my mother's Reason Voice in my head. "June. Maybe she needs a wig. Maybe she's going through chemo and this was the best the outskirts wig store had to offer." See. Regular June argued that if you NEED a wig you might want to make some effort to get a GOOD one, but then mom voice, old Ma-tura, took over again and said, "Maybe this was all she could afford. Don't judge, June."


I am the only person who could turn deodorant purchases into a novella.

So I found these tall cans over at the deodorant aisle, and I love it when people on Facebook call it the grocery isle. Doesn't bug me at all. Allegedly this stuff sprays on without harming our ozone, says June, who recycles only when it's convenient. And it lasts for 48 hours, which, why would you need that? Are you some sort of filthy hippie?

I got to the counter with my new can of deodorant, thinking this is the purchase that'll change everything. Now my life has taken a turn. Yep. New deodorant. It's all up from here!

The woman with the wig? The old lady?

Sparkly blue eye shadow. False lashes, which I think, I THINK because I tried not to stare even though I wanted to get out my sketch pad and capture her in charcoal, I THINK her lashes had sparkles, too.

And right then I knew, she was my people.

Oh my god, I LOVE her. I want to be sparkly blue eye shadow lady when I get old. "Get." Sad.

So that's that story, Be sure to email me to ask which eye shadow, which CVS and which deodorant. I love that.

June's Coworker's Senior Picture Poses


If you could read my mind love, what a tale my thoughts could tell. I wish I had words to tell you HOW MUCH this Alex and I hearted ourselves for this senior picture pose. If it were possible to change our Facebook statuses to In a Relationship with Ourselves, we would.

I gotta get to work. It's Halloween at work, and I was going to be a sugar skull, but effort. So instead I'm going as a doddering old crank who's one more failed relationship from sparkly blue shadow at CVS. Anyway, kids are coming and I'm handing out candy and there's a costume contest with the coworkers and so on.

I'll let you know how the new deodorant pans out.

Family · Friends · June's stupid life


You know my grandmother, the one I'm turning into? Today would be her 93rd birthday. And two days ago, it was her 70th wedding anniversary.

I got married two days after my birthday. I never noticed that before, our whole wedding/birthday two-day difference.


There she is, younger than I am now, with me on her lap, although I cropped myself out of that photo ages ago. See how there's…hair on her lap? Yeah. I so dig her glasses. Would be sporting those glasses right now.

I just got my eyes examined, actually, the other day. I got mad at my eye doctor and after eight years, switched to the competing place across the street. Which by the way is something Grammy would have done. Actually, I got mad at the receptionist, not the doctor, who was in fact lovely. She was super nerdy and quiet, the doctor, and yet she and her equally nerdy husband liked to travel all over to visit roller coasters. You just never know about people.

That quiet guy next to you is wearing women's underwear. I just read an article about that, actually, about how the writer checks men for lines, women's underwear lines, and she sees them all the time. At this point I'm starting to wonder if ANYONE'S vanilla. Is anyone? If so, tell me. I like how I went from my grandmother to non-vanilla sex. She'd tell me that'a a bunch of horseshit.

Anyway, I like the new place so much better. My new eye doctor, I mean. They have all this newfangled equipment, and they didn't have to dilate my eyes, which if you ask me is like a kiss from Satan. Also, my new doctor said, "FIFTY? You don't look 50!" And that is when we had intercourse in the eye exam chair. He kept showing me his moves and saying, "Do you like one {click} or two?"

That whole thing where they make you look at one eye chart and then {click} another always makes me nervous. Hell, I don't know which one is right. I saw them each so long ago. What if I get it wrong?

Anyway, he said my eyeballs look firm and strong. Way up firm and high. Out past the cornfields where the woods got heavy. Out in the back seat of my '60 Chevy. We were just young and restless and bored.

My eye doctor and I were none of those things, so he gave me an EVEN STRONGER prescription and we called it a day.

"Do you know what you should do that'd be hilarious? After each exam, you should bring out a seeing eye-dog and hand the patient the leash," I said, and really, I don't know why I'm not a millionaire with these ideas. I also, when the doctor said he was going to check my eye pressure, asked if he was just going to stick his fingers in my eyes.

I think my new eye doctor is going to try to mediate between me and my old eye doctor.

June's Coworkers' Senior Pictures


Since Bitchy Resting Face Alex only got half a day to do her senior picture pose yesterday before I panicked about something that was probably nothing, but different than the day before, I am putting her senior picture pose back up. And I'm giving you a new one…



I have to go. I have to smoke a More cigarette and stare out the living room window dramatically, in honor of my grandmother. She also did the jitterbug on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial at midnight, with a similarly drunk soldier, and if I can swing that I'll do that, too.





June's stupid life · Times I Amused My Own Self

In which June does not forget to add a senior picture

I bought a new yogurt this weekend; it has flax and pumpkin seeds and Lionel Ritchie and I don't know what all in it.It's a very busy yogurt. This yogurt also informs me that it's gluten-free, and guess what I am sick of. Gluten-free is the fat-free of the '10s.

Remember when we were all obsessed with fat-free? My ex-best friend's husband used to unload the groceries and say, "One hundred dollars' worth of groceries, three grams of fat." Years later, after they divorced, she was at a restaurant and thought, "That looks like Dan, if Dan had gotten fat." Sure enough, it was he. You know why he'd gotten fat? His new wife probably purchased fat.

Anyway, the gluten thing pisses me off. Gluten hate will be a Wacky Wall Walker in no time, and I cannot wait.

Speaking of which, I did not at all have Fritos for dinner or anything. I think they might could have had gluten in them. And fat.

Oh, but wait! Do you know what I forgot to do yesterday?

June's Coworker's Senior Picture Poses


You see here that Wedding Alex has sobered up since Friday and offered us this lovely senior-picture pose. Nothing says I'm-almost-outta-high-school like a flower on your shoulder.

"Did you feel sick on Saturday?" I asked her. I mean, girlfriend had THREE drinks and she was on the floor when I left. "No, I felt fine," she said. My tenant, however, who I ran into at the gay bar the next night, did not fare so well. She was still feeling awful on Monday.

I'm just now realizing that I went to a bar both Friday and Saturday. I am 50 years old. I feel like single life is really good for me. Two bars, Fritos for dinner. Of course, none of you would put Fritos past me on any given day, heartbroken or not.

Speaking of drinks, here's my latest Purple Clover article, about how Halloween parties for adults officially bug me. Not that I'm not above throwing one. Speaking of which, did I tell you I'm having an I'm Gonna Die Alone party in December? It's at my new old house. I'm having it December 5, so if you're local and I haven't invited you, write me. Evites isn't very find-your-friends friendly.

December 5 also happens to be Tallulah's 8th birthday, and let's not even talk about that. I took her back to my old old home, as Ned is back from his trip. The whole time they were here, I was on pins and needles worrying they'd ruin something of Kaye's. Their flapping tails knocked down knicknacks. They tried to get on the couch and bed.

But oh, when I came back (from returning them without incident), the house was so quiet and calm. I kept wishing I'd round a corner and there'd be a flappy tail knocking over Kaye's family heirlooms. I told them over and over I'd be back in a few weeks, and then we'd be together forever again. I wish I could email them a reminder.

What do you think Tallulah's email address would be? FangGrrrl@gmail? PitBoss@gmail? HoooCare@gmail?

Edsul's would be LuffMom!! and he'd be on Hotmail, still.

Last night I was chatting with a friend about really inappropriate-for-me dating sites I could join, and then I am sorry to tell you we came up with absolutely horrid screen names for my new imaginary ChristianMingle account. I know several of you told me there's a site where you can meet farmers, and you know what'd I'd make? An excellent farmer's wife. "Come in from the fields! Fritos are getting cold!" Banging on the triangle.

I'd join JDate if there were more than three Jewish people in the South, one of which I already married. And I'm not going on any I'm practically dead already, I don't have time to futz around with a Mrs. Robinson situation. I gotta reel in a man so he can help with my funeral arrangements.

I'd better go to work, as I am wont to do.



Drag Queen envy · Friends · June's stupid life

June strikes her own fancy

On Saturday, I decided to take myself out for a drive to see color, and not men of color as I did Friday, but rather reds and yellows. And I mean leaves. I'm not dating the Wee Pals all of a sudden.


Would you like to know who my number-one fan is, over here, for thinking of Wee Pals? You're looking at her. I am so opening up my heart and letting myself in. Spread your wings and let me come inside.

It's a wonder I turned out at all, with songs like Tonight's the Night playing on my transistor radio while I sunned to make myself look 50 at 13. Say, good influence, Rod Stewart! Do you know what annoys me about that song? Don't say a word, my virgin child/just let your inhibitions run wild.

If your inhibitions are running wild, then you're really really inhibited. Why would you get her all drunk and loosening up her pretty French gown if the next step is to make her inhibitions run wild?

Anyway, back to how much I love myself for thinking of Wee Pals. To celebrate my love for me, I took myself on a long drive Saturday, to look at leaves, and I made the deal with myself that any little town that had an appealing name and/or sign, I'd stop off. I popped into antique shops like a gay couple, and I walked down main streets. I took pictures of anything that struck my fancy, which you'd think would mean I mostly took pictures of m'self.


Taco Oldcar
Really, I had a fine time, and I let my inhibitions run wild. I took myself upstairs before the night got too old. Like Rod Stewart was when he was bagging that poor drunk virgin.

But here's where I made my mistake. My error of my ways, if you will. Because while driving down country roads and enjoying leaves and smiling at the FUCKING INSANE PEOPLE you find in every small town was a delight, on the way back I decided to pop in to Winston-Salem.


Okay, Winston-Salem wasn't all bad. I did see this drag queen dancing outside a store, singing to ABBA, which is about as good as it gets for me. It's the free-kitten-with-your-nose-job day that I dream about, really.

But Winston-Salem was our joint, Ned's and mine. I walked past bars where we had big talks, and restaurants where Ned got goddammit-good pieces of fish and so on. There's one bar we went to early in the relationship where I asked him who the love of his life had been. "I believe the love of my life is still ahead of me," he said, and since I was already FUCKING CRAZY about him at that point, I remember silently praying, Let it be me, let it be me, let it be me.

And it was. But now it isn't.

So. Yeah. Crap.


But I did find this tiki bar that I've never been to, and hashtag goals. So wanna go there soon! Who's in, from real life? Who's driving? It sure as hell ain't me, if there're mai tais involved.


That night, my friends asked me to go to the gay bar, and you don't have to ask me twice. Behold my gay bar makeup, but not my outfit. Although I'd make a fine lesbian, my Michigan State sweatshirt is not what I sport on a Saturday night.

I got the text that everyone was gonna be there at 9:00, so because I am super cool and all, I got there at 9:05. You know, to seem not eager.

Nine at night in gay time is like 3:00 in the afternoon for you and me. I was the SECOND PERSON in there. There was one rather terse lesbian attached to her phone, then me and the two bartenders. One was dressed as a woman with electric-blue pointy nails. Why are pointy nails the shizz now?

The other was wearing the teensiest shorts imaginable. That was it. Maybe he had on shoes, but honey, I was not looking for shoes. Holy god, he was lovely.

The two of them were chopping fruit, literally and figuratively. They were talking shit about all the other gay boys who work there, and I really should have gotten my pen, because they were hilarious, and they were killing me with their bitchy talk and I should have gotten it all down. As it was, I told them, "I don't care if no one shows up for the rest of tonight. I could sit here and listen to you two till close."

And right then is when my tenant walked in.

You know how some people you see everywhere? My tenant not only dwells, you know, in my home, she then got a job at my job, and then I see her at Target, at restaurants, and now she sees me alone at a gay bar.

"I'M NOT A BIG LEZ!" I screeched to her across the room, something that probably delighted Terse Lez in the corner. Why go to a bar if you're just gonna look at your phone all night? What could she have been looking up? Photos of her living room? I mean, go home, cranky lesbian.

Of course, she was the only actual homosexual patron thus far at a, you know, gay bar, so maybe this is what pissed her off. My tenant was there for a bachlorette party, and they'd just been to a two-hour pole dance class. Eventually, the drag queen mistress of ceremonies at the bar, who is hilarious too, insisted that the bachlorettes all get on the pole on the dance floor and show us what they learned, which was fabulous.

The bride-to-be had a large curly straw for her drink that spelled out "Bride," and it dawned on me to get one and sit alone in my house, drinking wine through my Bride straw. I'm trying to go for the Most Pathetic 2015 award. How'm I doing?

"Y'all got more dick straws?" the mistress of ceremonies called out to my tenant's table at one point. "The guys in back want all your leftover dick straws if you've got 'em."


There was a drag show, of course, and I just noticed I captured my tenant's table and some of the dick straws. Look at June, bringing it all together with her fine photography.

Eventually, my friends did show up, and I was–well. I was gonna say way less pathetic, but really I was slightly less pathetic than when the evening began. I was still a 50-year-old straight woman in a gay bar, with no love in sight and a hankering for a dick straw. So.

I'd better go, and do my real-life things, and stop telling you about my weekend, which was, you know, okay.

I've been wanting to mention to you that Kaye's house has a front door and a back door, which unless you live in an igloo, is probably the case with all of us. We got any igloo dwellers in da howse? You chillin' back at your igloo?

The point is, as soon as we got here, I took Lu and Eds right to the back door and let them out. And since then, every time. EVERY.TIME. I ask those dogs if they want to go out, Lu trots to the back door and Edsel noses the front door. Every time. He never catches on. I mean, I guess I should be grateful he knows that at least one door exists and that it goes outside. Still.

Poor Edsel.

Talk to you later, wee pals.


Aging ungracefully · June's stupid life

Still got it. Sort of.

You know, I lived here at Kayeeee's for three weeks with no dogs or cats, and the whole time I've been saying, "Truthfully, it's delightful!" And it has been. I think this is the longest I've lived without a pet, ever, other than in the dorms, where I had a roommate in seven feet of space, so same thing. Plus also we got a bunny eventually. "We." Plus also I brought home a bunny eventually.

Imagine the delightful things my old roommate must have to say about me.

But my dogs have been here two nights now, and yes, it's furrier and louder, and the first time I walked in and they charged me at the door and I forgot they'd be in here it was a shock. But, oh, there are so many more times in the day to be happy when you have dogs. I am sorry to report to you that we may have just wrestled on the floor, the three of us, till Edsel took it too far as he always does and just stood over us and bark bark bark bark barked at Talu and me. Talu and I rolled our eyes at each other and got up off the floor.

Yesterday at work, we'd planned to go to a happy hour, because one of the Alexes is moving to another department. A couple people who couldn't go said, "It's not like she's leaving forever; she'll just be upstairs." I cannot get behind that kind of logic that gets between you and your drinking. One guy had a sick wife and kids. "And you're gonna let THAT interfere with your DRINKING? That's when you know you have a problem," I said to him.

No one at work likes me.

The point is, I came home for a really late lunch. I drove the 20 ding-dang minutes here, and 20 minutes back, so I could let the dogs out for 20 minutes, so that when I came home at 6:30, it wouldn't be the end of the world.

Roll Roll1 Roll2

Tallulah was down with the whole backyard time.

In the afternoon, a bunch of boys at work went in the parking lot and threw that dang football around for a few minutes. I sat on the fire escape and watched them. "You want us to throw the ball at you, June?" they asked. Oh, HELL, no. I saw what happened to Marcia Brady when a football came flying at her. Oh, my nose. I mean, I say that enough anyway.

It was a perfect fall day, with the cobalt sky and the yellow leaves blowing hither and also yon. Where is yon?

I was enjoying seeing my middle-aged coworkers throw a football around, and also Ryan who is a zygote. It was cool to see who'd clearly been an athlete, and who'd always been an editor nerd.

It occurred to me that these people have no idea how much they've saved my ass these last six weeks. Just by being funny, or by quietly asking how I'm doing, or by being a middle-aged man throwing a football on an autumn afternoon, they've helped me. I know I'll be okay.

Why we went to a college bar after work is beyond me, and I got there half an hour after everyone else, because work ethic. The place was decorated for Halloween. "They should really sweep in here. Cobwebby," I said, gazing at myself fondly.

"We already made that joke," they said. They'd also already joked about the side door, that had 394842304024 EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY signs on it. "I feel like it's okay to leave through that door no matter what," I said.

"Yeah. We've already laughed about that."

I hate my coworkers. Aaaaaand now you see why I'm June Bright and Dark.

But speaking of bright, remember the Alex who got married in the spring? Drunk on half a beer. Half a beer. What I am telling you about Alex is she's no Kitty Dukakis, and join me here every day for June's Timely Jokes. "Well, I'm drunk," she announced, and her husband kind of got a yay-I'm-gettin'-me-some look.

"Will you pose drunkenly for me?" I asked.


I love my coworkers.

After an hour, I knew I had to get home to my chilluns, and keep it up and I'll call them that EVERY time. I went to the bar to pay, and it was what you might call chaotic in there, with the kids and their college drinks and the old folk such as ourselves and the Friday-night-ness of it all and so on.

Waiting next to me was a young man of color, and I just heard everyone scoot their chair up so they can hear better. "I guess I'm not gonna pay and get out of here in any sort of hurry," I said to him. "Oh, and incidentally, here is a pic of my dick."

I just said that so my mother would say, "Tsk."

The point is, we chatted for a good 10 or 15 minutes. He's getting his PhD. Me, too. I told him all about my math PhD. Can you get a math PhD? What the hell do you do with that? I also told him about my PhD in maturity and timely jokes.

We talked about my job and his dissertation, and he showed me his Apple watch, which I had admired, and we exchanged names and shook hands and that was really it. I kind of felt like despite the fact that he was 30 at best, he was considering asking me for my phone number, I am not even kidding you. However, he did not, so perhaps I am delusional and a lot like Jane Seymour's KittyCat character in The Wedding Crashers. Won't you buy my tacky heart-shaped necklace?

The point is, it was relatively exciting, and it NEVER OCCURRED TO ME that my fucking coworkers had made popcorn and watched the entire thing without blinking.

I hate my coworkers.

"Ooooooooo!" one of them said, as I got back. "Did you get his number?" another asked. Turns out, not only had they watched every moment like they were all Chauncey Gardner, they'd also all TAKEN PICTURES. "Oh, hell, Jennifer art-directed," one of them said.


Which, while ridiculous, is at least good for my blog. Look at June, workin' it. Sort of.

He was playing pool as I left, and they all told me to give him my number before I walked out, but really it's too soon, and besides, what am I gonna do with a 30-year-old?

Don't answer that.



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

Dog is my co-pilot


Guess who's coming to dinner.

Yesterday, after work, I went to my old house and gathered up my chilluns. How much do you hate me for calling them my chilluns? All of a sudden I'm Mammy, over here. But I AM Mammy, because look at my chilluns! Two of them, anyway. I feel like Edsel would be all, dis bad pikturr, mom. take nu one. He gots a kind of double-chin vibe, going on there. Plus. wonky ears.

If you ever want to thoroughly annoy me, make a big deal out of the picture I put up of you on my blog. "Oh, I HATE that picture! I look awful!"

Sayyyyy, I have an–lemme just–putting my thinking cap on. I GOT IT. Eureka! Why don't you get the fuck over yourself? The only one giving 10 hours of thought about your photo is you.

Oh! And before I forget…

June's Senior Picture of the Day


Here's my boss's boss, doing the thoughtful senior picture pose. "I'm pretty old for this," he told me. "This is literally a senior picture."

Anyway, back to my life. I'd like to point out, for the record, exhibit A, that the above photo of my dogs was not at all taken at that diner's drive-thru or anything. What meat loaf special on Thursday? Ima get fat as a house and never reel in another man.

When in your mind do you have me dating another man? Because I keep seeing spring, spring, spriiiing, but I really just like spring. Like, in those hours out of your day that you consider me and my plight, and you get together with the ladies for your June Coffee Clatch, do you say, Oh, she'll be betrothed by Christmas, or do you say, Well, that was that. She's too old to reel in another one. What say you?

It's funny, I have friends who are beautiful, and talented and fascinating, and they almost never have men. Then I've got other friends who're similarly lovely, and they find men all the time. It's like some kind of energy thing, and I abhor people who talk about energy like it's a real thing and not just a ruse invented by Satan, much like that phony global warming. But really, it's odd, isn't it?

When my Pal From MA visited me the year I was separated–not that I had limbs in one place and then another like The Scarecrow, but I kind of did–she said I wasn't putting out a sexual vibe. Well, how the hell do you do that? So I attached a neon arrow pointing and blinking at my parts, and that did the trick.

Whenever you break up with someone, you get a case of the Nevers. I'll never have sex again. I'll never love this way again. I'm sorry to tell you I sent a link to Dionne Warwick's stellar song, I Know I'll Never Love This Way Again to Fay, Faithful Reader and Beleaguered Having-to-Hear-About-My-Life Fay, just because I was being dramatic.

I mean, Dionne Warwick knows. First of all, she can smell it, because nostrils, and plus also Psychic Friends.

Anyway, my dogs. They are here. I went to Ned's house after work without incident, meaning no crying or kissing or Ned telling me yet another dreadful story about seeing any ex-girlfriends like he did last time. We kept it pretty unemotional, and I got the leashes off the hooky thing, which meant it was time for Edsel to have 40 fits, and we took our bowls and left. That's how all breakups should be. Take your bowls and leave.

The dumbest thing you can do is stand there tearfully and rehash what went wrong. Or ask the dreaded, "Are you seeing anyone?" question. NO ONE REALLY WANTS TO KNOW THAT.


So, here we are, making sure Kayeeeee's carpet loses any semblance of freshness. hullo ant k. we like yur carpitt. we like brad pitz in thelma and leweese. we like yur wife.

Really, that was the best part of the whole movie, when Thelma's husband sees Brad Pitt on the stairs, and Brad Pitt says, "I like your wife." Oh, that was great.

I'd better put on clothes. I know you're all hot and bothered, picturing me writing you from the depths of my purple robe. Oh, speaking of purple, someone in the comments yesterday was in a lather that she can't find my latest Purple Clover. Here it is. It's about spying on your loved ones. I asked y'all on Pie on the Face, the Facebook page where you all extol the virtues of June after your June Coffee Clatch, while wearing your Bye Bye, Pie t-shirt, and let me begin this sentence again. I asked you on Pie on the Face to tell me whether you spy on your person, and I said, "I'm on a deadline, so just for the next few hours, please tell me."

So a lot of you did, and a few hours later I got on there and commented. "Okay, thanks, everyone!"

Next time I went back there, there were 49 more comments. "I never spy!" "I believe spying is the devil, much like global warming!" "I believe the children are our future."

And I was all, OK, we're done now with the commenting. Article's been written and submitted. Thank you very–

"SPYING IS WRONG, JOON." "I've been married 368 years, and I've spied never, and–"

Madre de dios.

It makes me think of the Charlie Brown Christmas, where Charlie Brown is trying to organize everyone to Dancing-jerks
rehearse for the Christmas play, and they're all just dancing. I like the one kid who shrug dances. I never noticed before the two matching purple-shirted girls with the same dance movez.

Sally was underrated. She was hilarious.

Oh my god, I have to go to work. Am the worst.



June doesn't know any ugly people · June's stupid life · Times I Amused My Own Self

Now I know how Joan of Arc felt. Plus, hot soap.

One of my coworkers has a football at his desk, as though he were OJ Simpson or…some other football player such as Jim Namath. Because they were famous for having footballs on their desks. It's on a little stand–not my coworker, his football–like it has its own three-pronged house or whatever. "Hey, I'll hold the football, and you come running up and kick it!" I said to him. In unrelated news, love for self grows deeper.


Anyway, my coworker was playing with his new football, right there at work, and it's always funny till someone loses an eye. Then all the "I'm sorry"s in the world won't bring back that eye.

Whenever a grownup said that to me, it slayed me; I thought that was hilarious. I loved the idea of someone saying, "I'm sorry," then looking around the room, hoping that eye showed up so you can pop it back in.

One time I was having a tantrum, for a change. I was maybe 7 or 8. I was sobbing and carrying on, and my mother had had it with me. "I've had it with you," she said. "Get in the bathroom, stop that crying, and wash your face with hot soap and water."

First of all, has telling anyone to stop crying ever worked, ever, in the history of time? However, I stopped my crying immediately, because I was all, "Hot soap?"

Dig if you will the picture, of having to be my mother.

Speaking of which, last night I was on the phone with old mom, of the Hot Soap and it's-always-funny-till-someone-loses-an-eye old moms, and somehow I discovered she'd never heard the song Bigmouth Strikes Again, which is one of my all-time favorites.


"Really? You've never heard that song?" I was incredulous. I guess in 1988, when I was out dancing to cover bands and swigging the White Zinfandel, mom was busy being a grownup. "And now I know how Joan of Arc felt/NOW I KNOW HOW JOAN OF ARC FELT!" I sang, and let me tell you what. Singing voice? I got it, man. Did I ever tell you that throughout my marriage, I was not allowed to sing in the house? "Too scrapey," Marvin used to say.

"Well, how DID Joan of Arc feel?" asked mom, and you know, I never know what the hell they say, there. So I looked it up. They say,

And now I know how Joan of Arc felt
Now I know how Joan of Arc felt
As the flames rose to her roman nose
And her Walkman started to melt

Well, that's just nonsense. When you're drunk on the Zin, lyrics don't matter.

Oh my GOD I never, ever get to the point. How can you READ me? SO THIS GUY AT WORK had a FOOTBALL and I have no idea how I went from that to The Smiths and Joan of Arc's Walkman. And he was PLAYING with said football, and it occurred to me that he kind of looked like a senior picture. You know how sometimes senior pictures are all atmospheric? They take you out in a field somewhere, and you pose doing Your Thing? Which for me in my senior year would have included making out with Cardinal while drunk on Reunite Lambrusco. White Zinfandel hadn't been invented yet.

Anyway, my senior picture involved me looking over the shoulder of a blue sweater, sporting a Princess Diana 'do and some lindy star sapphire earrings.


The point is, and now I know how Joan of Arc felt, I made my coworker pose in a senior picture pose, and then I am sorry to tell you I made MORE coworkers pose, and this is where it gets exciting. Gird your loins. I've decided to do

June's Daily Senior Picture

with all of my coworkers, showing you one picture a day till everyone hates me or we run out of senior picturesque poses. Oh my god, I am so excited about this I could smash every tooth in your head. Am hoping to somehow acquire a wagon wheel. You know how inexplicably, some people put their foot up on a wagon wheel? "Oh, here I am, a senior in high school, who just happens to have one leg on a wagon wheel. Hello, future."

My coworker's kind of cute, isn't he? Just another soul y'all can lust after. Oh my god, we totally have to make Ryan do a senior picture pose, right? I mean, his senior year was last year, but whatever. I wonder how he feels about looking thoughtfully into the distance. Maybe considering the wagon wheel.

Is there an app where you can make someone's head float behind a picture of their own head? That's always my most ut. Why I have no pictures of my own head floating behind my head is beyond me. Let me put my foot up on a wagon wheel and consider it.

I'll talk to you tomorrow. Good luck with the guys, and stay sweet.

Food and Drink · I hate everything · June's stupid life

Or by a comma when the feeling’s not as strong

Today I have my phone, my computer is charged, and? No photos to show you. I took zero photos yesterday. So I'll show you a picture of Tallulah dead in the bushes from when I dog-sat last week.


Poor dead Lu. She is literally resting in peace. I wonder what'd make you say, hey, bricks look comfy, as does this bug-infested bush. Let me just–zzzzzzzzzzzz.

On the interminable drive home from my office to Kaye's house, and Dear Kaye, How the fuck do you stand it? Kaye, who is nice enough to let me stay at her damn house for six weeks, most of which she will be out of town for and doesn't have to put up with me, but so far she's gotten around 90 texts that go like this:

June: I can't start the dryer!

Kayeeee: Push the "Power" button.

Anyway, Kaye has an even longer drive into town to get to her job than I do getting to mine. She lives right off the busiest street in town. Well. Not right off. First you have to drive down these kind of country roads to get to the busy road, and lately there's been frost steaming off the grass in the mornings, and it's been really lovely. And at night I can see the pink sky as the sun sets.

Then you get to the busy road and you want to take you own life.

Kayeee is from Connecticut, and apparently her commute there was the opposite of fun. "Oh, Kayeeee loves her commute here in Greensboro," her boyfriend Marty Martin told me. "She's said it's her favorite part of Greensboro, even more than me."

"If she thinks that shitty commute is better than you, she must abhor you," I told him, because I'm the kind of friend who you leave feeling all glowy.

So I think she must know some sort of all-country-roads, secret spyware way to get to work that with my innate sense of direction I will never figure out. Siri, that syphilitic bitch, is no help in this at all, as she's not for ANYTHING. Siri was invented to give us another thing to have a heart attack about.

Back in the old days, the reason you had a heart attack was because you ate dumplings for lunch and never saw a doctor. Then you'd peacefully die in a field of corn you'd been sweating over and darn, that's the end.


Now we have heart attacks while sitting in front of our computers, after our WiFi goes out.

OH MY GOD. Seventy paragraphs ago, I was telling you that in the interminable drive home to Kayeeee's, there is a diner that has a drive-up window, and I've managed to not go to it so I can have a sensible dinner at home such as fish sticks.

But yesterday I got me a pork chop, and some mashed potatoes. Oh mother of god, that was delish. And so good for you. After that, I did me some Tracy Chapman, and a teensy part of me wondered why bother. But I did it. Kayeeeee has a big dresser in here, or something, that has a mirror, and I caught a glimpse of myself doing the arm exercises, which take longer than my commute, and I was all, Heyyyyy. Look at you, all arm definition-y. So that's exciting. Imagine how much more arm definition-y I'd be with zero pork chops consumed.

I'm gonna go, but before I do, I thought of something the other day and have been meaning to ask you. Which celebrity do you positively hate, the way I hate this commute? Which one just makes your blood boil. I know everyone's poised over the keyboard to say Rachel Ray. I buy her dog food, or rather lately you buy her dog food for me. Still. She bugs.

Who else? It's me, isn't it. I'm the big celebrity you hate. Oh, boo hoo hooo. Booo hooo hooo hoo hooooooo.

Okay, goodbye.

June's stupid life · Times I Amused My Own Self

June Google Effings It

I forgot my DING-DANG phone at work. My chargers are stupidly packed away, so I have stolen this one guy at work's fine Arab charger while he's in Japan or Tokyo or something. Are those the same place?

Anyway, it's not very long, the power cord, so my phone is often under my desk because that's as far as the cord will stretch. And unless some cleaning person is running around town with an iPhone 6+ wrapped in a bunny case right now, my phone is under my desk at work. Yes, I have a bunny phone case. Why don't you shut up?

This should not affect you in any way other than the part where once again, there will be no pictures in my blog FOR THE THIRD DAY IN A ROW. I do, however, have my laptop and it's not dead for once, so I thought I'd just Google "Bye Bye Pie" and then dumb words, such as xerophthalmia, to see what photos come up, and I'll throw those in so at least you have a visual aid.


See. I have no idea why if you Google "ByeByePie" and "xerophthalmia" you get this photo of youthful me being crabby in heels. But there it is.


Here's what I got when I Googled my blog name plus "single lady," because I am Beyoncé. I am bed, bath and Beyoncé. Cute picture. Was having good hair day.

Yesterday I began my day with the dentist. I gotta tell you, a year or so ago I screwed up ALL MY COURAGE and phoned the dentist's office and said, "I hate to be any trouble. But, um, could we maybe give me a new hygienist?" Dudes, you've heard me complain about that hygienist before. She talks INCESSANTLY. INfuckingCESSfuckingANTLY. From the second you see her in the lobby till she walks you out. Plus also she HURTS me every time.

So six months ago, I had a delightful person work on me, who didn't talk too much, and I barely screamed during the procedure. (It always hurts me to get my teeth cleaned.) Now yesterday, I'm in the lobby, and WHO comes out to retrieve me? "Oh, June! Hey! Haven't seen YOU in awhile! You musta been coming in on Mondays! I don't work Mondays! Today I'm subbing for the Monday gal; she's moving. She had a house out blooo de blooo way? She and her husband flip houses. But they decided this will be their LAST flip. He's got a whole other job, see, but…"


The good news is I need two crowns, and please insert Imperial Margarine joke here.


Here's what comes up when I Google my blog name and "Imperial Margarine." Henry was all adolescent and gangly. Hen. HenHenHen. And if you look in the dark background, there's Franny, too. I have no idea what I'm doing in this photo.

After that charming dental appointment and then work, I had a 90-minute massage that one of my friends gave me. My friend Beige, who I knew from LA.


Here's what comes up when you Google my blog name and "Beige." Anderson and Roger fighting in the angry chair. If you are new to my blog, you're all, "Eh?" "Howzzat?"

Catch up.

Anyway. I have this friend in LA, Beige, and she sent me a massage at a place right near my work. She is being nice to me because my heart is broken, in case you didn't know and I hadn't mentioned it. It's rarely on my mind, so you might be just tuning into this piece of news.


My blog name + "broken heart." For some reason, you get my cat salt-and-pepper shakers in bubble wrap. Dude, what the hell was I even talking about this day that this image needed to be shown? What the hell with me?

OH MY GOD ANYWAY. So Beige sent me a massage, and why don't I say "Beige sent me a massage" one more time. There's Samuel L. Jackson with a gun and a Big Kahuna Burger. The point is, I was lying on the massage table, and I noted they were playing, like, that kind of spa music that's all Native American-y. With the flutes and so on.


From OUT OF THE RECESSES OF MY BRAIN, which had been playing on the monkey bars, I remembered the mid-90s, and this one time when my Seattle boyfriend waltzed in while I was watching some documentary on wolves or something. "What's with this music?" he asked. The wolf documentary I was watching in 1994 was the same kind of pipe-y, flute-y Runaround Sioux song that they were playing at the spa.

"Paaaa-cooooo," sang my 1994 Seattle boyfriend in a ludicrously high voice, to the tune of the music. "Boodle-y-boodley boo. Paaaaa-coooooooo…"

"Oh, shut up," I said, trying to learn about wolves or dream catchers or whatever the hell Indian thing I was watching. But from then on, any time we came across anything remotely southwestern, he'd sing, "Paaaaa-cooooo…"

"Paaaaa-coooooo…" I could hear him trilling, while I lay on a massage table in 2015. I'm telling you, he'd be delighted to know his stupid song was giving me the giggles 21 years later. I kept trying not to think of it while she massaged me. But it was killing me. It's like every funeral I've ever been to, where I know I canNOT get the giggles, and that makes it all the worse.


Here's what comes up when you Google my blog name plus "giggle." My mother and me in 2003, putting giant candy coins on our eyes at a wedding reception. I wonder if people thought we were dead?

I have no idea what gives with my dress. My mother and I sort of match, like we were lesbian dates to Homecoming or something.


I knew it! If you Google my blog name plus "lesbian," you get this picture of me with my cousin Katie the lesbian. Say, have you seen my nude hose? I need to slip them on before I slide into my open-toed Candies.

Okay, I have to go. I hope you enjoyed every moment of this important post, and I leave you with the following announcement:

PAAAA-COOOOOOO. Boodle-y boodle boo.

June's stupid life

June, actually

I’m sitting in what I’m pretty sure was the cat bed at Kaye’s house. I would take a picture of it for you, but I’m speaking into my phone, and TypePad won’t let me send you pictures on my blog through my phone. Thanks, TypePad.

My computer battery is still dead, hence the part where I’m speaking into the phone like I’m Captain Kirk asking to be beamed back up. You know, this cat bed is comfy, and it’s in the bay window of Kay’s dining room, but there’s really nowhere to put my back. Hang on while I sit somewhere else.

OK. Now I’m in a dining room chair, still looking out the sunny window. So, the weekend pretty much yawned before me, and mostly what I did was feel sad. I did go to a movie yesterday, the movie Everest, which was so delightful and perfectly relaxing. Because Marvin has dragged me to every Mt. Everest documentary ever invented, I already knew the plot of this one, which was based on a true story.

One of the characters in the movie was a guy from Seattle. The character was played by Jake Gyllenhaal, who by the way was shirtless and wearing shorts and one scene. It’s times like this that I wish I could pause the movie in the theater. Holy cats.

The point of my story is, the character Jake Jill in Hall played? I knew him–look how my fucking phone spelled Jake Jill and hall just now. Goddamnit. It spelled it right the first time. And now it won’t spell it right. Jake Gyllenhaal hall. Oh goddamnit.

When I was living in Seattle, I was looking for a new place to live, and one place I considered was a rental house on the outskirts of town. I was not headed for the cheatin side of town, just the outskirts of town. Have I mentioned I need to get new song lyrics? Anyway, the guy renting the house out was leaving for a year to climb Mount Everest. He was extraordinarily good looking, I remember. I don’t know why you have to go away for a year to climb Mt. Everest. I don’t know why you have to climb Mt. Everest. I don’t know why that guy and I didn’t have a little mount June action.

I did not take his rental house, because I was young and knew I wanted to live right in the thick of things in Seattle. I wonder whatever happened to the person who rented that house. Did the bank take over his house, and that person had to leave? It’s weird that I knew that guy. I guess I can spoil the plot and tell you that he did not live. It kind of haunts me, thinking about that guy. I remember how excited he was when he said, “I’m going to climb Everest!”

He was too rugged and outdoorsy for me, anyway. He’d be the type of guy who would wake you up at 6 AM on a Saturday morning to go on a hike. That, my friends, is not my type.

I had better go. I have to go to the dentist this morning. It’s just a cleaning, but one of my teeth is bothering me, so you know I’ll need major oral surgery at some point. Before I go, could you do a favor for me today? Link me to all the good breakup songs that you know. Yesterday I was dancing to the song I Love It, which I would link to but did I mention I’m on my phone? Then I listened to some Joy Division, because apparently I will always live in the college dorms. What else can I listen to? Suggestions, please.

I will talk to you tomorrow when my teeth will be much cleaner. I’m sure that will be something of a relief for all of you.

Hygienically, June

June's stupid life

Sick of self

Once again, the laptop ran out of batteries, and please note the “ran out of batteries” part, so no one has to run out and buy me a new computer.

I ran out of batteries trying to watch eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. I realize that I should’ve capitalized the title of that movie, but I’m speaking into my phone, so sue me. I’d have to go back and delete that whole movie name, and then capitalize each word, that sounds exhausting.

As of today, I am not allowing myself to lie around and cry anymore. Now see, as soon as I said that out loud I’ve started to get a little weepy. Goddamnit. I am going to leave the house today, and go see a movie, and go try to find a winter coat.

I am also going to do my Tracy Anderson workout, and call a few friends who I just haven’t called back because I’ve been isolating. OK, maybe I won’t call anyone. It sounds awful.

I am the only person who wakes up on Monday morning and says, “Oh thank God, I can go to work today.” Weekends are the hardest.

Faithful Readers · Family · Friends · I am a pleasure of life · June's stupid life

She wants to TALK, June said, like that was the worst thing on earth.

The controversial paper towels.

I cannot believe how long you people can discuss a thing, in the comments. Anyway, here are the pretty paper towels Ned bought to seduce the ladies, and it's workin' on ME anyway, because every spill I'm all, DANG! Looky here at these paper towels-es.


How many paper towels can you USE in a two-day stay? Apparently you've never had five pets. Look at Iris's tawny nose. Don't you just want to boop it? She sincerely hopes you do. No, really.

Ned usually fed everyone in the morning, because he got up first, but when he's gone, or when, say, we're broken up and I'm homeless and he's out of town and I have to come back to my former home and care for my own equally homeless pets–let's just throw that out there as a possible scenario–here is the routine.

First, you get NedKitty's giant bag of old-lady cat food out, which someone has chewed a HOLE in, so you have to lift it horizontally like you're saving an unconscious maiden. Then you have to find a way to awkwardly get kibble in her old-lady bowl without spilling it everywhere. Shut her door.

Desperately attempt to get the gray cat heads out the way so you can pour the prime-of-life food into the other cats' bowls. Spill most of it on the floor because they refuse to budge, because GOD FORBID the other cat starts eating first.

Give them new water, because Tallulah's drunk all of theirs just for spite.

Go downstairs, where the dogs are bucking like broncos because IT BE FOOD. OH THANK EDSUL GOD, IT BE FOOD. Worree we never eeet agains.

Endure scratches to all parts thanks to dog claws and bronco activity. Dump in brown kibble, and today might be another day to say Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss. I don't even LIKE The Who. I blame Marvin for that lyric being in my head where geometry could be instead.

Refill already totally full water dish, because cat water be supreeme.

Schlep plastic bag upstairs, and why Ned insists on leaving them downstairs is beyond me. Walk into NedKitty's room, where most of her food is uneaten. Change her untouched water (the dogs don't dare) and scoop all 3949392 litter boxes. When you're done, note that gray prime-of-life cats are eating old-lady food, and NedKitty is at their dish, eating prime-of-life food.


Let dogs out, realize it's 20 minutes that you've been up and you still haven't peed. Silently envy those cold, I-hate-pets people.

I just noticed for the first time that the basement door gets a utilitarian black porcelain doorknob and not a fancy crystal one like the rest of the house. It's like the door is warning you: Utilitarian stuff down here. Dank necessary stuff such as boiler. Don't get excited.

Ah, this house. Ima miss this house.

Here's my tree again. Remember two weeks ago when I showed it to you? Aw. I love this tree. I wanted to see it every fall.


Also, tell me if I'm being a bitch. I mean, I probably am, but why is this happening?

You know I have a blog, right? And mostly it's read by people I don't know. Now that I have drama, my numbers are back up to, like, 2,800 people a day.

Heyyyyyy! Hiiiiii! Hi, everyone who loves it when I have PAIN.

The point is, there are easily–easily!!–100 people I know in real life who also read this blog. Friends I've had forever, classmates from 1979, relatives. Whatever.

For some reason, it annoys the SHIT out of me when people I know in real life email me to discuss something I said in my blog. Can you tell me why? Other than that I am the world's most irritable person? The thing that bugs me MOST is the questions. "Where did you get that necklace?" "Oh, which restaurant was that?"

I mean, these seem like perfectly benign Qs. And yet I get so annoyed. What is wrong with me?

The only things I can think of are:

  • I have a blog that has a comment section. Hey, maybe this could be addressed in the comments.
  • Maybe I feel like, hey. Already WROTE what I want to write about today. Really don't want to say more on it. Could we just discuss life like normal people?
  • I am just a bitch.

Remember some years ago, when my poor mother and I went to her then cabin in northern Michigan? I loved that place. I really abhor the phrase "happy place," but that was my, you know, place. Where I felt happy. Anyway, we were there with a bunch of relatives, including my cousin Big June, who's my mother's age and who is an only child such as my own self.

…Wait. I just found it the post where I wrote about this. It's actually from my OLD blog, Bye Bye Buy, and this scene happened eight years ago. Oh my god. Oh Edzul god. Here…

My mother has a cousin, also an only child, who has the same name as me. Ever since I was born, this poor cousin has been "Big June" while I got to be "Little June." If I were her I would hate me.

At any rate, Big June and her husband also came to said cabin on Saturday. They walked in. We said our hellos. The men went outside to move a boat or some manly thing. Big June found a photo album and started looking at it. I was maybe seven feet away, painting my paint-by-numbers kit. For a lovely three minutes, we did this.

Me: [Paint paint paint.]
Big June: [Peruse peruse peruse.]

All of a sudden my mother came in, chattering like a magpie. "Have you two looked at that lake? And those colors! You should have seen it this morning! It looked like the trees were on fire! Oh!"

Me: […paint paint paint…]
Big June: […peruse peruse peruse…]

After a minute or two, my mother came back in, this time from the kitchen. "We have pie! Do either of you want pie!? It's blueberry! It has real filling! There's coffee! Do you want to walk down by that lake? I'll be outside if you want to walk down there."

She left, and after a while Big June, never looking up from her album, said, "She wants to talk."

"I KNOW," I agreed heavily. We were appalled at this idea. It was as if my poor mother, who just wanted to converse with her out-of-town daughter and her guest, had suggested we all strip naked, make bikinis out of metal Jello molds, and plunge into the icy lake.

"I think this is an only child thing," I told Big June. My mother comes from a loud family of five.

So, is that it? Are we happy to be silent together because we have no siblings? Are there people from giant loud families who also enjoy their quiet time? Does quiet time equal "we aren't having fun" for you? Or are Big June and I just huge bitches?

The point is, my mother left a comment: "Yes, you're just big bitches." Probably the same applies here. But really, I want to make sense of it. Why does it bug me so much? It happens every day, for sure, and sometimes several times a day if I've blogged about something controversial such as paper towel preferences. Why does something that seems perfectly okay to do annoy me so bad?

I also get annoyed when people I know refer to my blog as "the blog," as though no other one exists. I hated "the wedding," too. Like I was Princess Diana or something. The baby. Also irks.

Why does anyone like me?

Okay, I gotta go. Am stupidly excited about six-minute commute. The commute from Kaye's house blows. This one is so simple and teensy.

Your simple, teensy pal,


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

June writes you from her old house

Well, THIS was a mistake. Say, June, why don't you come back to the house you shared with Ned? That won't make you despondent or anything.

Good gravy.

"I'm here, the animals are fine, I wish to jump to my death," I texted Ned. After his fancy business dealings or whatever the hell he's doing, we texted till late at night. We were ex-ting, is what we were doing. Turns out we are both sad. Glad we got that cleared up.

On a shocking note, guess who is delighted to see me? This was pretty much the smile he had all night.

still smyleeng at yuuu, mom.

Iris wanted nothing to do with me. Nothing. She kept slinking down when I tried to pet her, so finally I picked her up and she just hung there–hanged there?–like a vulture. At night, though, when I went to bed, I felt her jump up, and she got right on my pillow and put her paw in my hand. We held han–paw–pawns most of the night.


Talu had dignity, although she did waggle at me quite a bit. The worst part about Lu is she came into the bedroom last night. "Mmmmm," she said.

Talu goes outside and guards the back yard like a sentinel–and I guess that was redundant, really–for hours at night. I made her come in at 10:30, and Ned doesn't go to bed for at least an hour after that, so I think I threw her off schedule.

"MMMM," she said.

I mean, it was the middle of the night. And trust me, she usually just wants to go out there to torment a rodent.

"LU, GO TO BED," I commanded, because I have spoken. She toddled off to the other room.

This morning, there was a delightful pile of dog poop in the bathroom, and she'd also peed on the throw rug in there, and WHO FEELS AWFUL? She was trying to tell me. I just thought she was being a jerk. She's never done that before in her life, or at least since she was two months old. Oh, poor Lu.

Having pets is a delight. The good news is, Ned bought the prettiest paper towels, which I'd show you but I forgot to pack a cord thing, and my phone's out of power and THIS WHOLE THING IS A FEST, is what it is. A FEST.

Do you think he bought pretty paper towels to help him seduce the ladies? Really, we have green walls in the kitchen, and these paper towels have a sage-green border that matches exactly, lined in a purple that goes with the kitchen linens. I don't even know where he found them. Extra-fancy paper towel store?

"Well, I wasn't planning to sleep with Ned on the first date, but you should have seen his paper towels."

See, this is why I shouldn't stay here. I can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem obsessive.


Lily wished I'd bug her more. This is how I feel all day in the open floor plan at work. Like I'm Lily and my head is everyone else. I realize that made little sense.

NedKitty wasn't any more elusive than she usually is. She deigned to let me pet her for a bit, then went off to a taller box. She effing loves all these boxes to balance on.

Oh my GOD, this is sad. I really wish I didn't have to leave here, and leave Ned. Did I mention I should never have come back here?

Oh, but who got me the coffeemaker, again? I know I wrote you a thank-you note. Geez, you guys! I've gotten TONS of bags of dog and cat food, a fancy filter, broom and dustpan, coffee mugs, wine, bags of my brand of coffee–it's like I was the victim of a flood! Anyway, because I have no home at the moment, I've not taken a lot of the stuff out of boxes yet and therefore haven't seen who sent all of what. I made my tenant take some home and put them in my back room. I told her then when it came time to refund her deposit, I'd take money off because the back room is a mess. Who is a delight? Who is a fest?

Anyway, I know I just wrote you to thank you for the coffeemaker and now I can't remember who sent it, but the point is, I took my old, dilapidated coffeemaker from here when I moved to Kaye's, and somehow it got broken in the move. It won't light up, just like my life. So many nights, I sit by my window. Waiting for someone to sing me his song.

I mean, that's productive. I'll just sit here next to this window. Why won't anyone sing me his song while I'm up in here? Dang. Is she actually looking OUT the window, or just sitting near it, hoping for some strolling musician? A Christmas caroler? She's sitting near a window, hoping for a singing telegram. I mean, get outside and get the stink blown off ya, sister.

Anyway. So I took the box that contained my new coffeemaker over to this house, and plugged it in and set it up AND I LOVE IT. It's a Bunn. I swear by Bunns.

I need a bunny.

Oh, and local folk, Chris and Lilly have a kitten hanging around and they can't keep it. SOMEONE TAKE THE KITTEN. She is brown and stripey. No idea if she's really a she. She doesn't have huge eyelashes, like when Daffy Duck dresses like a woman, so I don't know.

That's two days in a row I've mentioned Daffy Duck. What gives? My succotash is suffering.

I took really pretty pictures of my tree here, but dead phone, so I can't show you. It's all blaze-y and autumnal, and when I sit by my window I can admire it.

This guy at work, Thousandman, was taking a walk the other day as I was driving to lunch, and he had all these pretty leaves falling behind him as he strolled. I told him he looked very poetic. Then later that same day, he was at his desk talking to me, and out the window were MORE leaves blowing behind him. I pointed this out to him. "Are you some sort of autumnal Pigpen?" I asked.

No one at work likes me.

Okay, I'm getting in the shower now. If I were Ned, I'd have put girl conditioner or a pink loofah in there to drive me berserk, but did I mention Ned is relatively sane? And that I am not? Once when Marvin was dog-sitting for me, early in our separation, I wanted to put a copy of The National Review and concert tickets on the table. HE would have gotten it, even if you wouldn't have. (Annie Hall. Of course.)

Talk to you later. I'll be over here keeping so many dreams deep inside me.

Hair · June's stupid life



Ned sent me this picture of Lily last night. When NedKitty disappears behind this curtain, she's a regular Wizard of Oz, so hide-y is she. Lily doesn't quite have the hide-all-your-parts part fleshed out. that not true. yu not see lillee.

We had to work out the logistics, as I am staying there tonight and tomorrow night to pet-sit my own pets. When I get there, Ned will be gone. I know I said I didn't think I could stay there, bu in fact I'm fine with it. I think. If I were Ned, I'd leave two champagne glasses in the sink, or a whole slew of condoms on the nightstand. But Ned is not as diabolical as me.


Last night I got my hair colored at a new place, because two times in a row at my OLD place, the guy who did it screwed it up. I mean, he said to me–twice–"I screwed this up. I have to put a toner on you." So I lost confidence in him.

This time my stupendously good-looking coworker Austin recommended HIS hairdresser, and I was kind of hoping if I went to her I'd suddenly get 12-pack abs like Austin, who by the way eats entire raw vegetables at work like it's a thing. You never run into him at the vending machine deciding on a Kit-Kat or, say, a Butterfinger Peanut Butter Cup. Have you HAD those yet? Oh, mother of pearl. Go. Shut off this computer and go.

I'm just assuming it's his 'do and not his dedication to CrossFit that makes him all good-looking. Right? Is it really spelled CrossFit like that? Because do you know what I am SickOf? Words becoming TwoWords with capital letter in TheMiddle like that. Every company names their everything TwoWords like that now. StopIt.

Anyway, as evidenced 200 paragraphs above, the hairdresser resides in an old mill, as everything here in North Carolina resides in an OldMill, because of cotton. Now those old mills are gone, abandoned. Because of China or wherever.

In fact, I work in an old mill. I wonder if, 100 years ago, there was some woman who every day traipsed to the very mill I work in, after she blogged.

The point is I love my new hairdresser, and it was not her fault that I was in there FORFUCKINGEVERRRRR. I got there at 5. Got home at 8:15.

We had to do my roots, which, hello Gray Gardens. Then we had to highlight me, then we had to wash my hair, then pull pull pull it straight, then she said, "Do you mind if I tweak it just a little more?" and she got out the scissors. At this point she looked like a delicious duck dinner, like when Bugs Bunny is lost at sea with Daffy. Did that happen or am I making that up? Do you recall someone–maybe Elmer Fudd?–picturing Daffy as a delicious dinner?

Anyone who can find that gets a yodeling pickle from me.

And "gets" is a loose term.

Anyway, she was tweaking my hair, and I thought about how delicious pizza rolls sounded, and finally she was done, and gave me the mirror so I could see the back of my head. Seeing the back of your head is a very big deal for hairdressers.

"Do you mind if I clean up a bit and walk out with you?" she asked. Mother of god. I said okay, because it was late and the mill was pretty much abandoned.

"Oh, and I recommend this product to you…" she began.

"I'll TAKE IT," I said, just wanting to go. It's a spray for your roots, though, which I totally need because in a week I'll have snow on the silver mountain again.

I handed her my card and she told me the total, and I told her to add a tip, and she handed me back my card. "That'll be $50," she said.

"No it won't," I said. I had cut, color, highlights, a blowout AND a product. She was off my about $982. "Oh my god, you're RIGHT," she said. "What did I DO?"

I should offer that I LOVED her, she was great, and she was also 8 months pregnant, which apparently fucks with your brain. One of my smartest friends was pregnant once–it was mine and I so hightailed it to Mexico–and she was eating a Fig Newton and asked, "These are great. What's IN them?"

Anyway, I felt the two remaining calories in my body leave as she re-slid my card. Then she couldn't FIND my card to give it back to me, and lifted her book, and another book, and opened a drawer, and I was ready to cry. We finally located it and then she said, "We should really schedule your next visit. When I get back from maternity, I'll be booked forever."

So then we had to get out those books, for this year and next, figure out a date, and pencil me in. Then she had to ADD IT TO HER PHONE and really, I started to wonder if hair dye was edible. Could I just shoot some down my gullet? Would that be okay? Just to tide me over.

At least Kaye's house is only TWENTY MINUTES AWAY. Oh my god.


Here I am, with my new hair, which looks a lot like the old hurr. Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss. I really need to get new song references. Please note that by the time I got home and took this photo, I had kwashirkor.

So that was my day, and now I'm headed to another one. I'm headed to the mill, so sew cotton or whatever they did at mills. It makes about as much sense as "I brand content for optimal content branding of your content."



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

I ain’t no challah-back girl

There was a blog I used to read where the writer would get up really early and head to her studio that her rich husband set up for her, so she could "create." She was forever blogging about how bleary-eyed she was from being up early, and eventually it got on my nerves. Sleep IN, then. You're such a tortured artist, with your hedge-fund husband.

Anyway, I can't sleep. Ever since I saw Ned the other day, I can't sleep. I had been sleeping like a drunk baby. You know how THEY are.

Let me head to my studio, where I can make art. "Hands in clay, eyes bleary in the dew hour." Oh, shut the fuck up.

She took herself way seriously.

That may be the trait I abhor the most: the taking yourself seriously thing. Even Stephen Hawking doesn't take himself seriously. If I were Stephen Hawking, I'd be a dick all the time. I'd be all, REALLY, God? Really. Fuck physics. Ima sit here and frown. Oh wait, I can't. Son of a–

Anyway. I went to the Jewish Festival on Sunday, which I could not tell you about on Monday because my computer died, and yesterday was hilarious. I meant it died, like the POWER died, because it's a laptop and it's my work laptop and it's the only computer I have right now at my temporary dwelling. I had the same problem LAST weekend, but this time you guys were all, "JUNE'S COMPUTER DIED! WE MUST CHIP IN AND GET HER A NEW ONE!" And I was all, no, no, just the power died. Just the po–

I had $90 in tips already. I kept writing everyone back. "No! Stop! I don't need a computer! It was the batt–"

$130 in tips.

OH MY GOD EVERYONE STOP PAYING ME! I was yelling at the screen at work. The Guy Who Sits Next To Me, and imagine his life, was all, "?"

I told him the story, and I said, "I keep refunding people's money and they keep tipping me!"

"Yeah, that's a hard problem to have," he said. TGWSNTM is probably applying for a transfer. To Syria.

Anywhoodle. Don't you fucking hate people who say things like that? The other day I was emailing with Faithful Reader Fay, who I talk to all the time even though we've never met. I pointed something out to her, and she said, "Oh, you're right. You've given me perspectacles to put on."

And that's when I stopped being friends with her.


Oh my god, anyway. Anywhoodle. So my walk in to the Jewish Festival was lengthy like my dick because everyone was there. See and be seen at the Jewish Festival! So I'm walking forever down this sidewalk when my eye was all, "Was that a–"

Okay, my EYE didn't say that, but my eye caught it, and what it caught was

A SNAKE. A SNAKE in the grass. All coiled up and hissin'.

It was not remotely coiled up and hissin'. That's a song. Instead you lay still in the grass, all coiled up and hissin'. And what a GOOD song, too, and nice grammar. Anyway, there it was. A black snake. A snake of color. I handled it like a man, if that man were Charles Nelson Riley.


After the snake shakes wore off, I had a fine time being Jewish. They were playing Neil Diamond songs on stage, I am not kidding, and then the inevitable klezmer music. I ran into a lot of people I knew, including my friends Roy and Nancy, who do not always go around with their names on a lanyard, but if it did that would be hilarious. I'm so gonna do that from now on, wear my name, or at least an initial like I'm Laverne DeFazio.

Volunteering. They were volunteering, is the thing. Which I guess is evidenced by the word "volunteer" on their lanyards. I also saw my friend Wilma, who was all, "You're here alone?" She seemed appalled. She reads my blog, though, so all I had to do was say, "I wanted the option to leave should I get sad."

But I didn't get sad. I was rockin' out with my prayer shawl out at that thing. It was fun.


Last night after work, one of the Alexes wanted to go for a walk. She lives in my old neighborhood, the one I just left, the one with Ned in it. We went to the park around the corner from my house, fmr., and walked anyway, throwing Ned-sighting danger to the wind. All was safe. You'll see I washed that blowout right out of my hair.

As we were walking, a man of color who was lying still in the grass all coiled up and hissin', walked by with his huge gorgeous German shepherd. "You have pretty hair," he said to me. "You have a pretty dog!" I said, and then Alex and I gave each other the whole June's-still-got-it look. Oh, wouldn't my dogs be pissed if they had to marry into a huge alpha-dog family with the Man of Color.

See how I can do that? Go from a hello in the park to we're married and blending our families? It's a skill.

I gotta go. I have to head to work, and then tomorrow I stay at my house, fmr., while Ned goes on a business trip. All I want in this world is to hold Tallulah's square head and kiss it 40 times. Am certain that's all she wants, as well. Ned tells me the dogs are very sad-acting, not that it's affected their appetites or anything. Don't be absurd. But he also tells me the cats give precisely zero shits. "They seem just fine."

Dicks. My cats are dicks like Stephen Hawking.



June's stupid life

June’s computer dies

Once again, my laptop died, so I can’t blog properly. I am speaking to you through my phone, like I’m Stephen Hawking or something. Which makes no sense, because Stephen Hawking cannot speak.
I will try to blog at lunchtime. The last time I said that, I ended up going out for a pedicure. You never know what whirlwind adventures will befall me.
Anyway, if you did not read this weekend, go look at yesterday’s post. I ran into Ned. Dramatic. When I saw him, I asked him if I was the worst girlfriend he ever had. He said of course not, but that he thought I’d be the last girlfriend he ever had. So I have that to live with.

...friend/Ned · I hate everything · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life

Surry with the Fringe on Top IN FRONT OF IRA

I'm not pressuring myself during the workweek, but I do have a rule during the weekend that each day I have to go out and do something sort of fun. So yesterday, I went to the farmers market.


Perhaps that sounds like a giant snoozefest to you, but I just loves it. My plan was to take pretty pictures, and buy processed food as I always do at the farmers market. Maybe get coffee (processed, if possible) and watch people while I sit on a bench judgmentally.


I'm not sure what you do with these. Aren't they supposed to come with caramel and nuts on them? Or in a pie. Aren't they supposed to be in a pie? It's weird to see them naked and ashamed like this.


Apparently, pumpkins with genital warts are now the shizz.

And it was right there at the pumpkins that I looked up and…


..there was Ned. You know how you just gasped? Yeah. Imagine my shock, with all the hummingbirds flying around up in me all of a sudden. We went there ONE TIME that I can think of, in our almost four years together. ONE TIME and now heyyyy, here's Ned. All farmer-ing out.

On Friday night, some of the Alexes and I were discussing where to go for ironically named happy hour, and I had a list of Ned Danger Zones. Places he might go if he felt like drinking and not stampeding to the gym. I'm afraid I even made a "highway to the danger zone" joke, because that's what it's come to. But the FARMERS MARKET? Come on, God.


So we did what you always do when you run into the man you love and can't be with. We looked at gourds. "I don't know what it is. Ned," I said. "I'm drawn to this greenish one."


"That wavy orange one is calling to me," said Ned.

So we had coffee. And talked. I told him I'd just seen Marvin. "Oh, how was Marvin?" he asked. He'd always liked Marvin. "Did you guys have sex?" Ned has this idea that I'm out FLINGING my girl parts around all over town, like they were champing at the bit to get out all this time.

Dear Annoying Person Who Sent Me An Annoying Correction Comment Last Time and Did Not Even Bother to Look It Up, and Who Forgets Hey, June's a COPY FUCKING EDITOR. No, it isn't. It's CHAMPING. Chomping has been incorrectly used for so long that people think, oh, that MUST be right. Sadly, it will move that way and WE ARE ALL IDIOTS.

There are all sorts of things we say now that are technically incorrect, but the language moves on. I should blog in Olde English. Plus, how polished would this place be?

Anyway, I assured Ned that I did not butter Marvin's biscuits, which you guys know if I had you'd be the first to know. Similarly, if I were planning to butter ANYONE'S biscuits you'd be the first to know. Is that wrong?


I'd taken my requisite unsmiling selfie before the Ned sighting, but then he took this one and it sums me up, as well.

At least he wasn't with a girl, right? I mean, that would have been so much worse. Still. It pretty much screwed me up for the day.

Today I'm going to the Jewish Festival, and I realize my life was one big Jewish festival for 16 years, but maybe I'm having a throwback Sunday or something. Am hoping they have, like, adoptable Jewish husbands in crates or something. "Oh, can I pet this one?"

So that's my plan. Jewish fest, maybe a nice trip to the bookstore, and then I thought maybe I'd go home and open a wrist.


June's stupid life · Marvin

June has dinner with her ex-husband, who had a raging temper and was a philanderer. Alternatively, it just didn’t work out.

You'll be sad to hear Marvin didn't wear plaid.

I hauled my arse all the way to Chapel Hill, and who knew Chapel Hill was so cute? Turns out it's where University of North Carolina is, so it's full of the quaint shops and hot college girls. I kept trying to point them out to Marvin and he kept missing them. He was never an elevator eyes type of guy.

I parked in a lot, and there was a line of 500 people waiting to pay at the auto pay thing. "What's going on?" I asked, irritated. Like, did the people at the front just not know how to use the machine and they were holding us all up? Because irritating. Am always looking for new opportunities to be irritated.

The man in front of me turned around. He looked sophisticated, but had some sort of can–a can!–of alcohol, open, at the ready. I mean, he was well-dressed, like he was on his way to dinner. He sized me up. "Where are YOU headed?" he asked, standing too close.

You know how I am. "Well, I'm on my way to have dinner with my ex-husband," I said. "We get along just fine. Haven't seen him in about a year, and I'd like to not be late." If Can Man got any closer, he'd be my unborn child.

"You're not late till you get there," he said, and apparently Can Man was full of the wisdom. Or the canned liquor. Really, what man tries to be smooth with a can of open alcohol on the street? Say, Catch.

Eventually I gave up and decided if I get a ticket, I'd fight it, because no one could work the machine.


I walked to Tallula's, and there was Marvin.

When the waiter came, he explained he was new and someone would be tracking his every move, and what would we like to drink. Marvin got water. If only he'd have asked for a can of alcohol.

When the waiter brought our drinks and some EFFING DELISH BREAD, I asked, "So, how long you been working here?"

"…a while."

"And they still have someone tracking you? Well, you're doing great." You know how I am. I'm surprised I didn't tell him Marvin and I used to be married and we get along fine.

After he left, Marvin waited. "That was a whole 'nother guy," he grinned.


"Yes, that wasn't the guy who first came out." Marvin giggled–GIGGLED!–at my humiliation. See, that sums it up. Marvin loves to watch me suffer. He also reminded me of the time on our honeymoon when the bee attacked me and he "couldn't" help. "I had ice cream!" he reminded me.

Our EFFING DELISH food came, and as it did, there was a plunk on our table. PLUNK.

Then another one. PLUNK. A squirrel was right above us, dropping seeds or nuts or cannons or whatever on us. We could SEE him up there, the little fucker, giggling at us. "That be a diffrent wayter!" I heard him say.

When the meter maid came, Marvin dashed up and slept with her or something, and got me out of a ticket. I contemplated waiting for him to get back till I ate, but Miss Manners says if food is hot you don't have to wait. I decided to remind Marvin of this when he returned.

He ran back to the table to see me eating. "Miss Manners," he said, sitting down. It's so convenient when you've known someone for 30 years and lived with them for 16. You almost don't have to talk.


"Do I look depressed and haggard?" I asked Marvin. We didn't suddenly start eating in an open floor plan. I took this unsmiling selfie before I let, for the head of our department, who even though he's in New York working, managed to ask me how my blowout went. Maybe I tell too many people my everything. Anyway, I sent him this, because am certain he was not busy or anything.

"No, you look good," Marvin said, but then again Marvin fears me. I tried to get him to tell me the same things I always want to know: How many people has he slept with since we broke up. When did he start Doing the Deed. He'll never tell me, or he'll tell me such a stupid number I know it's not true. "You'll tell all your blog readers and it'll be published all over the world."

Well of course it would. I may have even emailed the head of my department about it.

So I still don't know.

After that it got pretty late, and we both had to go, but it was great seeing Annie again. I realized what a terrific person she was, and how much fun it was just knowing her. And I I thought of that old joke, y'know, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, my brother's crazy; he thinks he's a chicken." And, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" The guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs."

I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships; y'know. They're totally irrational, and crazy, and absurd, but I guess we keep goin' through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs.

(That was only funny if you're obsessed with Annie Hall.)

Hair · June's stupid life

Clair de Lunatic

Last night I dreamed that I came home from work and went in to take a nap, and I felt Ned come lie down next to me. Then I woke up with a jolt and realized I was in my bed alone. Thanks, subconscious. No, really, thanks.

In other, less depressing news, I'm having dinner with Marvin tonight, of the used-to-be-married-to-him Marvins. He's in North Carolina working on a movie. Yes, he's back to working on movies again like he did in LA. Did I ever tell you, back when he was thinking of leaving sound mixing, one of the last movies he worked on was this documentary about a psychic, and don't ask what movie because I have no idea if it ever even got made. Half the stuff he did never got made. Anyway, she talked to him and said he would always regret leaving sound mixing.

So there you go.

Anyway, we're meeting in Chapel Hill because it's halfway between us. "Can you bring Tallulah?" he asked. I explained that no, I really could not. But then he found a RESTAURANT named Tallula, so we're going to that. I wonder what Tallulah will serve. todaaay speshul be brown kibbul! we also haff appetiser, it be brown kibbul!

So I'll let you know how our brown kibble evening goes.


I also wanted to say that if you've sent me something nice lately and I have not thanked you, please let me know. I've gotten boxes at Ned's, boxes at work (please see above where Miss Doxie sent me ghost books and a ghost meter. "Be scared, not sad!" she said), gift cards…I mean, if I were you I would HATE me right now, so rich in stuff am I. And I keep trying to stampede to my computer to thank you right away, but sometimes work and so on, and then I forget, so do let me know so I can thank you properly.


And finally, my other big news is that I went to the blow-out bar yesterday. At lunch, as I was walking to Elegant Nail to get my eyebrowns done (there was a sign in LA that read: Eyebrown Wax, and now I can't say anything but eyebrown), I was walking in behind a very polished woman, as opposed to a very Polish woman, which is what you're generally doing in Michigan. Lots of your Polish people there. I have some Polish in me, actually. You haven't had fun till you've polka-ed at a wedding with your cousins.

The point is, she looked so sleek and I looked like a schlub. After my browns, I took this selfie and just as I did someone was walking to my car, and this looks very dramatic but really I was making sure no drunks were coming at me. There's a bar next to Elegant Nail, and sometimes drunks accost me on my way out. And not even cute ones.


It turns out, Wednesday is $25 blow-out day, and this past month I got this little employee recognition thing (I am EMPLOYEE OF THE CENTURY!!!!), and it came with a gift card for just that much. God wanted me to get blown out and then go home for some restorative fish sticks.

They had a menu. Like, do you want The Kate or do you want The Grace? I chose The Clair, and I have no idea which famous Clair they mean. Clair de Lunatic. Anyway, $25 plus tip later, here I am, post Tracy Chapman.


So we get our unsmiling selfie AND a shot of my blowout in one fell swoop. Anyway, I'm tempted to do this, to get a blowout a week. I mean, I don't look nearly as insane when my hair's straight. Ooo, and remind me to tell you how I've somehow roped one of the Alexes into helping me paint my bedrooms, and we keep coming up with excellent ideas such as glitter paint.

One wonders if The Grace would even stay on my head should I choose it. They should totally have other, bad famous hair blowouts you can get, such as the Axl or The Russel Brand. The Whoopie.

Okay, going. Talk at you.