New birth. New girth.

Dood. Oh my god.

I know I'm a high weight when my thighs touch at the tops, and lately they've been reaching out and touching someone, which bothers. I've been FEELING phat, too, but I've been afraid to weigh myself.

Yesterday I did.

Not just at my high weight, I'm at THE HIGHEST I'VE EVER BEEN. I'm lucky the floor hasn't broken. Good gravy. Literally. I blame my antidepressants, and I don't care if I DO feel great, I'm going off them. This is ridiculous–I've gained 20 pounds since I started them! I'd rather be thin and miserable than fat and happy. Well. "Thin."

Plus also too, on Friday evening I went jeans shopping, which is always a delight, and I did not quite, you know, fit into anything. I finally found some that had once belonged to the circus, and bought those while they asked me if I needed any restorative ice cream since it had clearly been half an hour since I'd had any, but man.

So yesterday I did Tracy Anderson as hard as a person can do her, and took each dog for individual walks, and we will not talk about the Burrito Supreme I had as the day wore on.

Oh, this is a terrible feeling. What a feeling. I can eat it all now I'm dancin' for my life.

Despite m'girth, I had a busy weekend. I went on my date Saturday, which was not a love match.


This was orange cheesecake, and why so chubby? I think I'm dangerously close to not even being "chubby" anymore, but downright plump. I have no idea what the difference is, but with "chubby" I always think of Nancy Drew's friend Beth, who was cute and chubby and rosy-cheeked. She still got play. Probably most often from Nancy's "tomboy" friend Jo.

Oh, so not a love match. Yeah. For example: "I'll get the check this time, and you can get it next time."


What's your take on that? My feeling is, unless the man is jobless, and even then if he was the one to ask you out, there should be no QUESTION that he's paying. And that he should pay for a few dates, until we're more or less a couple. For me, it means the man is going to be chivalrous. He's going to be the man in the relationship. I don't go in for the whole "we're equals" crap. Maybe that's old-fashioned of me, but I want the man to take care of me. I want to feel like if a wild boar charged us as we left the restaurant, that he'd do whatever it took to fend it off, not stand behind me and screech. You know?

And I don't mean he has to make all the money while I loll about at home, although that'd be lovely and why does that never happen, but I don't mean that at all. I have friends whose husbands work and they don't and on top of that they have cleaning ladies and complain about how busy they are and I want to smack them clean across the head.

But I have a friend who had no kids, didn't work, but her husband entertained regularly. So it was up to her to have elaborate meals and make everything pretty, and I think that's a fair exchange of work.

I don't know what I'm trying to say, other than for me, if a man wants me to start going dutch right away, I know I'm not going to feel taken care of. He's gonna be the guy I call when the car breaks down who'll say, "What do you want me to do about it?" That's a thing, by the way, that actually happened with someone I dated in the '90s. That pretty much ended things.


After my not-a-love-match date, I went to my coworker and neighbor's house, a coworker I'll call notLuis, for a Peruvian dinner. I've never been to a Peruvian dinner before and it.was.delicious. "This is how we do dinner in Peru," he told me. "We have wine, we talk, we eat appetizers, we have wine, we talk, we have the first course, we have wine, we talk, then dinner, then wine, and we talk, then wine, then dessert. Then we have wine and talk."


He wasn't kidding. This was my vision by the end of the night. Bah. No. I accidentally took this and I love it. It was fun, and we should really take a page from their Peruvian book and not eat everything like the building's on fire. I was there till well after 1:00, and they were astonished when I said I had to go. "Already?"


Here I am at 2 in the morning. Two a.m. in the morning. In my snow leopards. Rwawr. That snow is good packing, with my new girth.


I ended up sleeping in and having a lazy morning with the needy committee, then I schlepped to Lilly's to see her new baby, as opposed to an old baby, and I need to stop saying that.


This is not the new baby. This is their regularly scheduled child, Zella, who lives with dogs and cats and chickens, and who has a horse next door that she can walk right up to, and who has a grandmother across the street who gets her every day to help feed the horses and see the barn cats and get eggs. How did she get my life before she was three? Annoyed. I only know she's almost three because I was there the day she was born. I delivered her. Then I made meringue pies for everyone. Which is less believable?


Look how natural. That child knows he's in trouble. He feels less taken care of than I do on a dutch date. "girth laydee going to forget she holding. girth laydee going to drop graham on flor."

Oh my god, I forgot to tell you that when I was sturdily walking Edsel, trying to burn off my new girth, and say girth one more time, this kid approached me. "Have you seen Helen Keller's new house?" he asked me.

I knew the punchline, but you know how fond I am of Helen Keller jokes, and why does god punish me with girth, do you think? "Nope," I said.

"NEITHER HAS SHE!" and he got such a kick out of himself that I ended up standing on the street with him laughing like a girthy hyena. I wonder if his dad's single? I wonder how his dad feels about girth?

I watched the Academy Awards for awhile last night, but I got tired, and annoyed that the celebrities weren't supposed to thank people but did anyway. Tallulah snored through the whole show. I'd have woken her up if they'd given a lifetime achievement to Lassie or whatever, but they didn't.

I'd better lug myself to work. Everyone will wonder when they hired Jackie Gleason.



P.S. Crap. Forgot to link to newest Purple Clover article.

Putting the bitter in sweet

Today is my 8-year anniversary of finding Tallulah. Best day ever. I know this will probably be our last year together, but I'm trying to appreciate that she was up next to me when I woke up this morning, and is sunning herself on the deck as we speak. She seems to feel better since she starting taking the pills they compounded for her, so I may have her for many months to come.

I noticed that, at first, after her diagnosis, my shoulders were up near my ears at all times. When I came home for lunch, I worried she'd be dead. I'd wake up and feel for her breathing in the night. I no longer do that. We seemed resigned to it as best we can be.

And for now, she's still my sweet aloof Lu.

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Yes, you CAN be aloof and sweet at the same time. Lu proves it every day. She's more like a cat. When she wants affection, she's on top of me. If she's not in the mood, she does that shirk-down-from-my-pets thing that cats do what makes you want to cock punch them.


I have a busy weekend up ahead of me. I have a date in less than three hours and I am makeupless right now with my head in a towel. Which makes it hard to see the screen. Bah.

This is not the Lenny Kravitz date; he seems to have ghosted and fuck Lenny Kravitz. This is a regular white guy who seems really cool. Am sort of excited about this one. He lives in Raleigh, and we tried to have a date where he shows up on the train and spends the day here and gets back on the train, which would be so great, but the logistics didn't work. So then we decided to meet exactly halfway between our houses, which would have put us in the side of the road, and way to get killed. So now I'm driving 45 miles and he's driving 39.1, and see what a compromiser?

Further reports as developments warrant. (FRADW)

Tonight I celebrate my love for you, and I also have a Peruvian dinner to go to. The friend who's having it lives right near me, so I'm toying with walking there but it's cold AF and also way to get killed. Again.

I'd better go get started worrying about my makeup and hair and ensemble and so on, so I can look totally casual walking into a restaurant less then three hours from now. "Oh, this old thing?" Actually I am wearing an old thing. I plan to wear my vintage blue-green sweater I got at my friend Kit's shop. I wear the shit outa that sweater, but it's a good color and just hints that there might be some fabulous hoots up under there. I'd wear pasties if it were warm enough, but see above ref to cold AF.

Do you like how I'm jumping on the "AF" train a year later? You're welcome.

Then tomorrow I have Unitarian church with the glitter shirt guy. Then Ima go see Lilly, of Chris and Lilly, and their new baby, as opposed to an old baby. After that my Sunday yawns before me. Oh shit, except I have to write a column. This new site asked me to write (wait for it) relationship columns for them, and my first one is due this weekend. FRADW.

I need to stop saying that. Further reports on how will I cease to say that, as developments warrant.



June forgets a title. Again.

This came up on my Facebook feed the other day…



Thanks. That's comforting. It doesn't bug me at all that there's an extra space before "handles." I really believe the man of color in the chef's hat is a real photo and not stock. And what about the little twink at the bottom of the page? Yeah. Break him off a piece of some curvy woman. And can he borrow her blush while she's up?

Anyway, that's not why I'm here. I'm here to complain. I KNOW! Let me lift m'girth and settle in.

You may not know this, but I get migraines. I hate to complain about them. Anyway, the other night one was creepin' 'round my back stairs, so I took an Imitrex and discovered I was taking my last one. They give you nine in a pack, and why? Any NORMAL person would scream through nine in a few weeks.

Marvin used to say that to me all the time. "Any NORMAL person would want to have sex by now." Oh, wow. Now I'm hot. Lemme lift m'girth.

So I did what I always do and I called Target pharmacy. We're back to my migraines now. Keep up.

"Oooo, looks like you're out of refills," Anais said. I swear to god there's a tech there named Anais, and when I asked her if she'd read any Anais Nin, she hadn't. I really hate things like that. How can you be named after someone and not check out who you're named after?

The way they give me Imitrx is in a baggie, I have no idea why, and all the pertinent info is on the baggie. So you can carry an annoying baggie in your purse all month, and even if you do that all the pertinent info wears off, or you can toss the baggie and just carry the box in your purse and find out when you're out of refills the way I just had.

"Okay," I said. I know the drill. They call my doctor, he refills me for another year, and in the meantime, if I'm totally out, they'll give me a pill–one pill–to tide me over just in case. They aren't addictive, they don't make you high. They just get rid of a migraine, which lemme tell you, is a good idea.

"Oh, we can't give you a pill without a prescription."

"What? You've given me a pill for years." I've been going there for 8 years now. But they used to have a pharmacist with a cool name, and if he was doing something wrong I don't want to give his name because what he did was merciful, and anyway they have this new blonde young jerk of a woman in there now.

"Could I speak to the pharmacist, please?" I asked intellectually uncurious Anais.

The blonde chippy got to the phone. "Oh, no, we don't loan out pills unless they're everyday pills like blood pressure medication," she said.

"Look, I had a migraine yesterday, and it's going to storm today. I know that there's a huge likelihood I'll get a migraine. If you don't give me this pill, I'll have to sit in the emergency room tonight."

Bitch would not budge. I sincerely wish the world's largest, most awful migraine on her, a migraine where there is not one pill to be found.

"The only thing I can recommend is you call your doctor," she breezed indifferently.

And this is why I hate my doctor's office. "You have reached the nurse assistant for June's doctor. The doctor is not in on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons." I am not making that up. I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. You'll be stunned to hear I have a backup doctor there, since mine is never fucking in. I pressed 4 to get her.

"You have reached the nurse assistant for June's backup doctor, the one who should really do something about her hair. The doctor is not in on Wednesday afternoons."

It was Wednesday afternoon.


I was gonna GET a migraine just trying to get migraine meds.

Anyway, I ended up not getting a migraine, and the next day I got my prescription filled at a new pharmacy. This was a good idea anyway, because Ned goes to the Target pharmacy and now there's one less place I have to worry about a Ned sighting®.

Anyway, that's the latest thing to IRK ME oh my god IRK MEEEEE, and I guess that's all I have to say about that.


I keep forgetting to put in this picture of Ryan, at my old desk, for all you cougars. I wonder how he feels about curvy women?



June hates something

Do you know what I hate? Oh, wait. I guess I shoulda told you to hang on to your hat. I hate something. Rare.

I hate it when someone tells their woes, and another person answers back, "That's okay, I [insert whatever thing is worse in that person's stupid life]."

"I have flames licking my body."

"THAT'S okay, I had a flat tire!"

"That's okay." Go fuck yourself. Way to invalidate the other person and make it about you. Jesus.

Hi, ya cinth! I think I make that stupid joke every year.

I had my first hyacinth yesterday. (THAT'S okay, I had a whole bush of lilacs!) It's very exciting and I alerted the president. (THAT'S okay, I'M the president!) (Okay, I'll stop.)

We also, allegedly, had tornadoes whip through the Carolinas, which as a Michigan person was like, eh, and for all the North Carolinians was all MOTHER OF GOD A TORNADO! The good news for me is, a house fell on my sister. Hey, didn't she have on some ruby slippers? Where'd they go? They better not be on any gingham-wearing, sleeping-pill-addled ho.

I had a date last night and he wore the world's fabulousest shirt. He got it at some vintage store, and it has ribs of glitter in it, can you see? Oh my god, it was the best shirt ever. We had a good time, and we never shut up, and I got home late and we're going to the Unitarian service together at the bookstore this weekend. I have always been meaning to go, and he has, too, so now we're going.

I also have a date with a Lenny Kravitz lookalike later this weekend–we think maybe Saturday day. I've been invited to a dinner Saturday night, and he's out of town Friday, and blah blah blah. The point is, Lenny Kravitz. And no, I will NOT take a picture of him for all of you, GOD. Weirdos.

"THAT'S okay, I have a date with Rhett Butler!"

See what I did, there? I said I'd stop but I didn't.


Also, someone covered my boss, fmr.'s, computer in green dots, and I am delighted by this turn of events.

My house is a wreck. I've been out too much, doing too many things, and there's a pile of unfolded laundry on the dining room table; the kitchen floor, which I just washed this weekend, is back covered in muddy dog paws; there are piles of animal fur everywhere I look and the whole thing is making me restless. Tonight we have a department happy hour, and afterward Ima come home and drunk clean. Also, the house smells like dog pee, even though I have pee pads, and that is a concern.

Lu seems in good spirits, still, and can't pee, still, so everything's the same there. The pills are at least keeping her pain at bay, it would seem. The pet photographer and once again he is not my pet, sent me the photos of Lu, and I'm to pick some out for printing and so on.

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I don't know when she lost a bottom tooth. I blame her hooves that she loves to gnaw. I love how she's spent her whole life posing as a blog dog, so she's all, wut you want lu to du? she du it.

I will talk at you tomorrow. I hope this whole post was as meaningful for you as it was for me.



Mini and Mickey Stroke

I have a first date tonight. I got asked out by someone who said, "Would you like to have a no-pressure drink with me?" I said the only way I'd go is if we had an extremely high-pressure drink–for example, a really, really carbonated beverage, or else coffee and marriage.

After finding ourselves hilarious about this for several email exchanges, we finally decided on whiskey after a building collapses on us. "Bring a straw," he said. "A very long straw."

I've been on a no-contact-at-all-with-Ned thing, and hey, what do you know? That helps. One of my friends broke up with her boyfriend in the summer, yet continued to see him and talk to him and I kept yelling at her about that and doing the same thing. Plus, a guy at work said to me, "Is Ned the person you still wanna tell first when anything really good or really bad happens?"


"Yeah, you gotta rely on your friends more."

I mean, that stuff is so simple, and yet so hard to do. But that's what I've been doing, and I have no idea what'll happen tonight, but all you can do is try, right? Well. I guess you could also not try, and wait till you're 100% sure you're ready, but that sounds so boring. And what if you never DO feel ready and you die on your couch and no one finds you till they realize at work that you aren't at that meeting and where's she been, anyway?

Oh! And in other news, I almost fell to my death yesterday. I came home for lunch, to let out Pee Willy Winky, and I was headed back to work with my high-heeled ankle boots and my wet steps. I had just talked dirty to them. Anyway


next thing you know I was on my walkway.

I don't know if I missed the last step or slid on a leaf or what, but man. That's just how it was when I sprained my ankle in 2013, it happened so fast I don't even know what I did. Maybe I'm passing out for .08 seconds or something. Maybe I'm having teensy strokes every three years. Do you like how I can't just slip, it has to be a rare brain disorder?

The point is I scraped my right knee, and twisted the crap outta my left ankle. Straight outta ankle. I have no idea what that means. I guess I just had another of my mini-strokes.

I hobbled back inside, feeling like once I took off my boot, my ankle would be the size of Guam, and in the meantime, I called my new boss. I got a new boss a few weeks ago, and he is decidedly not my old boss. He is what you'd call no-nonsense, and is he also what you'd call not in my phone yet. So I had to call the office, proper, and ask to be transferred to him. I didn't even kibbutz with the receptionist, and I wonder if she thought, "Was that June?" when she transferred me.

By the time I did all that and he got to the phone, I realized my ankle wasn't all THAT bad, so my conversation with my boss went like this:

"This is Thousandman."

"Hey, Thousandman, it's June. I just fell off my porch steps and I thought I'd really hurt myself but I think I just twisted my ankle so forget it; I'll be right there."

You know what must be fun? Supervising me.

It does really hurt, though, but not I've-really-injured-it hurt. I had to get my alternate to take over my Lord of the Dance performance this weekend. June Flatley.


After work, I had a massage, and this was the little card they left for me on the table. I had to have the guy read it to me because I didn't have reading glasses, and when did I become this person? As in old.

Oh! And the OTHER news is that Edsel and Tallulah had a fight last night. I don't mean their general play fight, or even the occasional Tallulah-wishes-Eds-would-stop-humping-her annoyance. I mean they went at it like a couple of bucks, or jackals, or like they were Ron Goldman's dad and OJ or something. It was really scary, and I kept yelling, "HEY! HEY!" like that was gonna help. I think Talu not feeling great didn't help matters. I don't know. It started over that damn hoof, and THEY EACH HAVE ONE, but hooo care.

Anyway, it was over in a minute, and I was a little shaky, and they seemed really disconcerted. "You two say you're sorry," I commanded, with the iron fist of training. "You know you love each other."

They both had their heads down and wouldn't look at each other, but they were both wagging hysterically, too. Edsel was more than a C this time. He was more than a woman. More than a woman of C.

I went back to my hard-hitting watching of Girlfriend's Guide to Divorce, and I noticed a moment later that they were holding hands. They had their paws on top of each other, and they sat like that for a long time. What the hell is Edsel gonna do without Tallulah?


I've gotta get to work, to my new row. I have given, with my iron fist of organization, two blog names to the woman in back, but the first time I talked about her I called her Eugenia, and that is so absurd I am sticking with it. Eugenia and…and…lemme ask the woman who sits next to me if she has a blog name she wants. She is da bomb. Oh, and see that damn green dot on my "It's not mean if it's hilarious" needlepoint? My old boss keeps putting green dots on all my shit. He hearts himself, and I'll be putting a green dot on a nail bat if he doesn't cut it out.

I have no idea if that's what you call it. You know, one of those clubs with nails in it? What's that called? If no one's come up with a better name for it than "nail bat," Ima call it Eugenia.

I see I've talked forever, and I'm you're one of those people who keeps trying to back away and I keep talking, so goodbye.



Daugué for Women


The pet photographer, not that he's my pet, sent me this early. He hasn't edited the other photos yet but he wanted to send this. If you're local, by the way, he's called Lucky Pup Photography. I mean, his mom doesn't call him that. You know what I mean. Look at Lu's big, beautiful head. I can't even stand it, she's so cute.


After a long day at the studio, Tallulah relaxes at home. Edsel has never once dared to go on the couch, and I've kicked Tallulah off as well, but lately if I'm on there I spread a blanket and let her come up and sleep on me. Last night I came in and she, oh, bent the rules maybe a tad. Jerk.

Yesterday was a busildy day, as Mondays generally are. I wrote next week's Purple Clover, and worked at my regularly scheduled job, and then I may or may not have caught up on my Bravo shows via the Bravo app. Do you have the Bravo app? What on earth is wrong with you? And here's what I have to say to my lofty Real Housewives friends: You know how Yolanda took Lisa and Kyle to that cryogenic tank to get frozen, to reduce inflammation? And how Kyle said her knee felt better after?

Years ago, I was in a bar in Seattle, and this old Russian lady told me I should pour cold water on myself every morning. Turns out, she was right. Inflammation, man. I like how I'm hopping on this inflammation train after it puffily left the station 10 years ago.

Tonight I'm headed to the old movie theater, where they are showing From Here to Eternity. I have never seen this movie before; I know it's the one where they french kiss on the sand, which, crunchy. I am assuming it's about leaving your house to go buy Eternity for Men. I once dated someone who wore Eternity for Men. I rarely date men who wear the man perfume, but I always have liked it. Any time I smell that, I think of that particular guy. Another wore Alfred Sung, and it smelled so good, and I'm sorry to tell you I bought some for Marvin later.

That was pretty creepy of me, now that I write it out loud.

Do you have a signature scent? I fear that right now, mine might be "Dog." "Daugué, for Women." It might even be Daugué Pee. For Women. Yesterday I bought pee pads, to spread on the floor, as opposed to making a prom dress out of them, and I was so worried some cashier would be all, "Oh, do you have a puppy!?" and I'd burst into tears.

My ex-best-friend had a cat that lived to be 25. Toward the end, there, it had to pee on pads cause it couldn't get up, and right there was a case of someone who let their pet live too long. At any rate, once her mom was at the grocery store buying adult diapers for the cat to pee on, and cat food. She said someone gave her a dirty look at the store, like she was feeding an old lady cat food.

I gotta go. But before I do, I wanted to ask you. Will you marry me? No. That is not what I wondered.

Yesterday my friend at work had to take her boyfriend to the airport. "Where's he going"? I asked. "Oh, he's on his way to Nerd Camp. All the engineers go and talk about nerd things. There're discussions, and experiments, and he'll be beside himself the whole time."

That got me to thinking: What would be my nerd camp? Like, what kind of camp would I go to where it'd be all my people all the time? Makeup camp? Kitten camp?


Maybe this blog is my nerd camp.

Anyway, what would your camp entail? Like, if you could go away and be among your people, who would they be? Knitters? Math experts? Would it be a sex camp? Craft camp, or as I like to call it, hell? Let me know.



P.S. When I'm done blogging every morning, I stampede over to my categories to pick on or 70 for the day. At the very top of the list is "…friend/Ned." It's at the top, I guess, due to the ellipses. There is no way to delete categories that I can find, so every day the "…friend/Ned" category mocks me. It mocks my pain. That's all. Screen Shot 2016-02-23 at 8.23.09 AM


Edsel Jean King

Laundry, done. Oil change, scheduled. Lawn maintenance guy, phoned. I did everything I said I would last time I was here, except for that pesky work-on-my-book thing. What do you want from me?


The best part of Saturday was when Tallulah and I drove to Winston-Salem together to have her portrait done with the devil camera that stole her soul. She and I took turns driving. Yes, my windshield is cracked. Yes, it costs the same to fix a windshield as it does to get Botox. Why don't you shut the hell up? God.

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The photographer was very nice, even when Talu peed on his floor 17 times. "I'm sorry, it's part of the cancer," I told him, and it turns out, you can pull out that cancer card and it works every time. The photographer had any number of techniques for making Lu look at the camera, including squirrel calls and sound effects coming out of his very own lips.

"Wow, is she ever focused on you," he said. "Can you come sit right next to me so she looks this way?"

People have told me that before, that Tallulah follows me around the room with her eyes. I mean, not literally, because that would be creepy. Teensy set of brown eyeballs on legs behind me all the time.

Anyway, one of his techniques was a squeaky tennis ball. "Does she play with balls?" he asked, and I abstained from 7th-grade jokes. But she doesn't, is the thing. Lu plays with stuffed toys and she'll chew the hell out of any animal parts bone you give her, but balls are not her thing. Lu has been a giant lez her whole life, if you ask me. And I'm going to hell for putting her in a pink collar constantly.

He got out the squeaky ball anyway, and guess who effing loved it? Oh my god, she chased that thing, and caught it in the air. She was obsessed. "You'd never know she was sick," said the photographer, and he was right. At that moment, she was perfect. I think she forgot everything hurt.

When we got to the car, the guy was running across the parking lot after us. "This one is brand new," he said, giving Lu a squeaky tennis ball.


We brought it home, and

Edsel's ya-gonna-throw-it? face.

His whole life, he's never been a fetch kind of a dog. Now he is. Lu never played with it, even once, because Mr. Tennis, Alfred Dog Tennyson, was up in it all night. Tennis Hopper. Lucille Ball.

You catch my drift. Now I wonder what sorts of other things Tallulah never gets to enjoy because of Edsel. Like quiet. She never gets to enjoy quiet.


Speaking of quiet, my neighbor Peg came over, and actually she is a mercifully quiet neighbor. She was at the antique store this weekend and saw these blue midcentury modern wine glasses, so she got them for me. Wasn't that nice? When I packed to move back here, I was what you'd call distraught, and I packed badly. I brought only one wine glass with me. Last time Peg was over, I served her in a Mason jar, not that I was standing in a Mason jar, and I think her designer self was appalled.

So, yay. New/old wineglasses. I like everything new/old. I guess I even date midcentury modern men. Damn.


Tallulah once again forgot that she abhors Peg, and was all up in her grille the same way Lily always is for anyone who stops by. "Yessss, she likes being petted, doesn't she?" Peg cooed at Tallulah, also forgetting what Lu is usually like. There were times in the past where I actually worried that Lu might just up and bite Peg, and I've never felt that way at any other time. Now it's like all is forgiven. Whatever unforgivable transgression Peg committed back when Lu was a puppy is now water under the bridge. So. Let's all take a page from Lu's book today.

alternatiff lee, we cud throw ball!!

God help us, everyone.

Put a little birdhouse in your soul

As you've likely surmised, pretty much every second of my existence in this house involves an animal near me or on me. At this point, I don't even really notice. This morning I was delving through the pile of mail I'd thrown in the bowl all week when I heard chittering.

I knew right away it was chittering, and it turns out, Lily was right next to me on the arm of the couch. She was chittering out the window AT THE BIRDHOUSE.

You know how I get. Little brown birds with tan stripes up the sides of their cute heads are building a nest in my birdhouse, which is right near my living room window!! Oh, how exciting. Getting Mormon Tabernacle Choir to follow Iris around to announce her arrival from here on out. Good lord. Iris, in the meantime, is fashioning a high-jump pole and a trampoline to get up there.

Today yawns before me with only one plan. At 4:00, Tallulah and I go to Winston and get her picture made. I found a pet photographer, and no, he's not gonna dress her up as a watermelon like one of those nightmarish Anne Geddes babies or anything. Just a straight-up Lu pic. Because I don't have enough photos of this dog. But I wanted something professional.

Hang on. My keyboard looks filthy.

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Yesterday after work, a bunch of us went to the fitness room and did a dance video workout with that Daily Burn app. Mother of god. It was kind of a hip-hop class, and in case you were wondering, I am white. Man. I got to nearly 10,000 steps on my Fitbit from that workout alone, though.

Then I came home and showered and joined Mr. French for a drink. We are not dating; we're both getting over our broken hearts and decided a few weeks ago to just be friends. We sat outside in the cold while he smoked and pontificated and we had a great time.


"You look really good," he said, as I joined him up at the bar. "Oh, thanks. I got my hair blown straight," I told him. Later in the night, he said, "No, you really look good. It's not just the hair." I did not want to tell him I'd gotten my face shot up this week, as I do, and yes I DO owe money for taxes and why don't you shut the hell up? Nobody asked you.

Anyway, since I have sort of a free weekend, I have all sorts of things I WANT to get done and never have time to do. Like, invoice all the places I freelance. Hey, taxes-owing June. And get my oil changed. Do laundry, since today I have to wear my wedding dress. Find someone who will power wash this house. Start making this blog a book. You know, that sort of thing.

Are you looking forward to June's next "I ate chips and binge-watched shows all weekend" post? Me, too.



June describes her Thursday. Read on!

do anywon ever tell mom that she boring as chit?

I had so many things to do yesterday. Do you know what I enjoy? Anyone telling me what's on their "plate." I'll tell ya what you can do with that plate.

First of all, they moved my desk yesterday, and I don't mean emotionally. I was in this private little corner, by the accounting people, who come in and leave exactly on time and have five screens with numbers on them and never fool around. Being in a room full of the "creatives" must delight them. You should see the rest of us, with our ping-pong and our bouncing the ideas off each other. But they were quiet, the numbers people, and I really–call me crazy–need to work in quiet. I grew very fond of my numbers neighbors.

Now I'm back in Times Square with the rest of the "creatives." We're all moving around to make way for more departments to come join us and be "creative." Do you wish I'd add more air quotes today?

So a lot of my day involved packing, which by now I'm an Army wife. This is my ninth move at work, in five years. I try not to get too attached to one spot, like how you try not to love barn kittens. "Where's the spotted one?" "Cow sat on 'im."

My stepfather is from a farm.

The other part of my day involved people being astonished I'd moved to a new desk. "THERE you are! All the way over here, now, eh?"

My new neighbor is Amelia, who I didn't just come up with via a random name generator or anything. She and I are part of the three o'clock walking group, and also she is often up for happy hour. I already know I like Amelia, who will not chat your ear off or anything, so yay.

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Also, someone brought their dog in for a minute, and do you know what charms me? Calm little dogs. You always expect them to be all, HI! hi hi hi hi hi! I love you, oh how I love youuuuu, knights in white satin. You know, like Edsel. But when a little dog is mellow, it's cute as shit. Behold Gaby, who I fell in love with deeply. LOOK AT HER EARSES! Also, when you see her from behind, it's like they took one dog and stuck a different white head on it. She's all gray in the back, party in the back, and white in the front.

Gaby wanted to know why I'm at a different desk.


Also, I had lunch with my Uncle Bill. He's in town for work, so I had him meet me here at my house so I could let poor Talu out first, then sadly we went to Panera. I wanted to take him somewhere local and fun, but there wasn't time. I never go to Panera, and let me tell you.




Who knew? I eschew chains, other than, you know, Hardees. Now I am a new Panera fan. It was a big day. My Uncle Bill liked Panera all along. Also, just now realizing I have an Uncle Bill. And I went out with a Mr. French twice. Maybe later today I'll buffy my nails.

Then I had a dentist appointment. Read on for more! I had to get my permanent crown, and we all know I deserve a crown. If I were Kate Middleton, I'd be wearing that bitch every day. A charity event? Sure. Lemme get m'crown. Land mines? Crown!

I know I've told you before about the hygienist who chatters like a magpie. When I got to the office, she was the only one there. "Didn't you get the text? They had a funeral and they moved your appointment to 2:30," she told me, and I should really read my texts. "Want some cheesecake?" Being early at the dentist. It isn't all bad.

"I'm sort of upset today," she told me. "I worked on this woman, and she went on Facebook and called me 'The chattiest hygienist in North Carolina.' She listed all the things I talked about that day; I think she forgot she was Facebook friends with the doctor."

Now was my time. God was wanting me to tell her. Facebook was wanting me to tell her. The dental world was wanting me to–

"I mean, maybe it's a wakeup call but when I have patients you'd think they'd like to chat I mean all you're doing is sitting there and what else is there to do so I talk to them a little I mean she was talking too and…"

I kept trying to open my mouth to say something profound, but the more she chatted, the more I realized God had already tried to tell her and it had fallen on deaf ears. Ears that had gone deaf from hearing her own self chat. I did feel bad for her, as she is a nice person. But a nice chatty-ass person.

Right after work I had my hairdresser, whom I like, and she did my roots and cut my locks if you catch her in the back seat trying to pick her locks you better send her back to mother in a cardboard box. See? My BRAIN is chatty. What's with chatty, anyway? Why do people do it? I try to be aware of when I'm talking too much, reel it back in. I do this because of my grandmother, whom I've told you about before. She'd get up early, for example, and read all the paper. Then you'd get up and pick up a section and she'd start TELLING YOU WHAT WAS IN THERE.

"Oh, there's a good article in there about the new bridge."

"Really? Oh, I'll look at that right–"

"They say they can't get funding. They say it'll be like that another year. And the MAYOR said…"

Oh my god. LET ME READ IT.

When I'd go visit her, I'd time how long she was silent between stories. The longest I ever got was like 17 seconds. Even hear tea was Constant Comment.

But see what I'm doing? I'm telling you a story I know I've already told you. So now I'm Grammy. Yay, god. Thanks.


Do you like what the hairdresser did? Does it look natural? IMG_7907
Here it really is–she blew it straight. Hey yoooo. I gotta stop playing with that makeup app. Every once in awhile in this life comes an app you get obsessed with. The sound effects one obsessed me for a long time. Now the makeup one has me hooked.

I guess that sums up my Thursday. I got home after 8:00, because that's how long my hair takes. Then I drank a bottle of Evian because it's 1978, and I went to bed. I just went on my Fitbit page to see how long I slept so I could tell you, because riveting, and there were Ned's stats. Ned was extremely active for .68 hours yesterday. Naturally now I'm obsessed. What was he doing? Who was he being extremely active with? How long is .68 hours?

I Fitbit unfriended Ned.

Talk to you tomorrow.

Your strong black woman friend,


Ask June Anything Day

I had a migraine this morning, so I took a pill and lay back down, waiting for it to work. Edsel spent that whole time with his head pressed against me, wiggling ecstatically. Restful.

Since I'm running late, let's have Ask June Anything day, and I will answer in the comments when I can. Go ahead. Ask.