June sees an abusive boy; goes Pit on his ass. Story at 11:00.

Edsel and I had kind of an upsetting night last night, and I just inexplicably typed his name "Edseul." He's now phoreign. That's "foreign" with an underbite.

We were on our regularly scheduled walk, and does your dog lose his shit every single day over the walk portion of the evening, even though it's the same goddamn blocks up and down, same stupid Puggle barking at you on the next block, same old lady taking up the sidewalk with her walker, and so on, and has been for the last six years other than one simple year abroad? Just to throw a scenario out there.

That poor old lady. But that's a story for a different day. I once worked with a woman who pronounced it "dimfrent." Also a story for a dimfrent day.

So, we're on our regularly scheduled walk, which is apparently so exciting for one of us that high-pitched whines and ear-splitting barks must be issued forth beforehand, during The Snapping of the Leash part of the event. Once I calm down, we commence the walk.

There's a small park near my house, and if you go in there, you can see several people's fenced-in backyards, including one yard that contains chickens. Not, like, barbecued but rather chickens all formal, in their feathers, struttin' their strudel. Edsel is riveted by the chickens. He doesn't bark at them or try to get them in any way. He stands stock still, not even wagging his incessant tail, and stares at them till I get over it and make him move along, nothing to see here.

We were on the chicken-staring portion of our evening when I noticed the two kids screaming on the playground weren't having fun. And they weren't kids, exactly. I was a ways from them, but they looked maybe teenager-y, or maybe early 20s. I'm so old now that these subtleties are lost on me.

It was a boy and a girl, and they were having an argument. First I just listened in for the sheer joy of hearing someone else's fight. I do have to say that these six months without devastating fights has been, you know, good for my psyche. I used to cry so hard during those fights that the next day my throat would hurt.

The girl was really screaming, and the boy was screaming back. I'd planned to walk past the playground and into the open, grassy part, but it felt weird to walk past that. When I started leaving, I turned around.; something made me look again.

The boy was leaning over the girl, who was on a swing, and he was screaming in her face. She kept trying to get up and he'd block her way. Eventually, she DID get up and he continued to block her so she couldn't leave the scene, and finally he pushed her.

Oh, that DID it. You fucking fuck-ass motherfucker. What I WANTED to do was scream, "HEY!" and old-biddy myself over there, but I was scared of him. He was livid, he was young, and I had Edseul with me, not an intimidating Pit. I feel like Edsel would've wagged at him and handed him his business card. Edsel Pretzel. Heer to luff you. Lu woulda ripped out his throat. And I'd have let her.

heer to luff you

I turned to go knock on a neighbor's door, because I didn't have my phone, but someone was driving up the street right then. I waved the guy down–I did! I got out and waved him down, asked him to call the police, which he did, and then we waited for the cops to show up. The couple had moved to a bench and were talking quietly at that point, but I still wanted the police to show up to tell that


that he can't do that to a girl. I wanted to take that girl home with me and feed her some Parmesan cheese, seeing as that's all I had. Today's payday.

Once I saw the police roll up, I got out of there. I'd been lurking in a bush anyway, while the guy sat in front of the park with his car. "They're just young kids, but that isn't cool," I'd said to the guy. "No, ma'am, it isn't," he'd said back.

That asshole kid. My instinct is to just go over there and punch him in the head, which I realize doesn't make me any better than him EXCEPT FOR THE PART WHERE I DIDN'T ACT ON IT. Asshole kid.

Maybe I need to get another dog. Like, a giant Rottweiler or a tough German shepherd. So I can whip them out during these situations. Maybe I need a shotgun. Just walk the dog with my shotgun. Hey, it's the South.

Oooo, a sword! Hanging from my belt! That won't look crazy. As opposed to the big-haired woman who stops to look at the chickens every day. When did having chickens become a trend?

All right, I gotta go. I'll let you know if I get up in anyone else's business today.

Gladys Kravitz-ly,


The state of things

You know what's gonna happen today? No one will comment. That always happens after a 200- or 300-comment day; it's like you're all so exhausted. "Oh my god, I just wrote 15 words to June yesterday. I'm all in."

Did your grandma used to say that? "Heavens to Betsy, that party was long. I'm all in."

Anyway, that was fun, right? Or was it just fun for me, kind of like any time I have sex?

If you just got here, and welcome to earf (remember that movie?), yesterday I asked you where you were from. I wrote down each state that was represented until after work, when I got bored of writing down each state (I loved it when people said things like, "I'm from Esentbergstein!" with no state name, like I'd know where that was. I also got people saying things like, "Hailing from the Emerald State!" and I'd be all, Oh, crap, now I gotta look that up).

(It's exhausting to Google. I'm all in.)

Anyway, last I checked, 40 states were representin' and also 1990 called and wanted its phrase back. Plus also too, we had seven other countries checking in! We are all so totally the It's a Small World exhibit right now. You're welcome for that song in your head, which will stick there like tar in the recesses of your brain for at least the next nine days. Fucking Disney.

Oh, the other countries were Germany, Australia, Denmark, New Zealand, England, Ireland and Canada. Oh, Canada.


Faithful Reader Amish Annie made a map with fuckstick hearts on it, and I stole it from her yesterday afternoon and it isn't up to date, because Fawn Amber checked in from Alabama and there isn't a fuckstick heart on Alabama. Plus also, only four Post-Its for other countries. So. GOD, Amish.

Do you know what I hate? Oh, wait. I should have told you to brace your own self. I hate something.

I hate it when people call them "Stickies." What the fuck. "Post-Its" has the same number of syllables, so you can't say you're pressed for time, and IT'S THE RIGHT NAME. "Will you hand me the yellow stickies?" How 'bout I hand you my dick?

I seem to be big in this state, North Carolina, and let's face it. I'm big everywhere. Do you have any idea how many Weight Watchers points are in Pop Tarts? I FOUND OUT THE HARD WAY.

"You're not supposed to eat first and look up the points later," my mother said. Also, every man at work, when I complained about this, said, "Points?" Fuck men. Which I will never do, because big in NC.

Anyway, I also had a lot of readers on Texas and California, but they're big states, so.

Have you ever noticed when people say where they're from, they often tell you the region as well? "I'm from southern Illinois." Oh. Hunh. I mean, if you were from NORTHERN Illinois, then we'd have to get ready to rumble. I remember my idiot neighbor in LA, Rik, telling me he was from northern Italy. Oh, NORTHERN Italy. Well.

And just one more thing and I will drop the Map Talk With June. I look on Google Adsense, and every day (not weekends. So not every day. Whatever. Hand me a yellow stickie) it says I have around somewhere between 2,000-3,000 readers. Wait. Lemme go check.

…Okay, yesterday I had 2,555 readers, with 315 comments.

Do I really only have 300 readers, who check back in so many times a day that it counts as 10 times that much, or do I really have somewhere around 2,000 readers and most of them won't comment? I read somewhere that you usually get about 10 percent of your readers to speak up.

I don't know. That's only interesting to me, so I will mull it on my own.

OH MY OWNNNNNN! How I wish musicals wouldn't pop into my head.

In the meantime, the guy who power washed my house just texted, and he's on his way over to paint the porch today! Does anyone else watch the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? Any time I say "paint the porch," I hear, "pat the puss, pat the puss…"


(The first person who doesn't know how a gif works gets stabbed with a yellow stickie. CLICK ON IT to get it to stop, if that is distracting you.)

It'd be sad if I were the only person in America watching Real Housewives and they kept it on just for me.

He had the flu last week, my power wash guy did, and then it rained, and it's finally pat the puss day. I'm so excited. He's also gonna cut my lawn, which sounds like a euphemism. According to my mind, I have a big day ahead of me, what with the puss pattin' and the lawn cuttin'. Really Ima just go to work and come back to a white house. With black curtains. At the station.

That's white room, isn't it? Dammit.

I'd better go to work. Other than hearing from people all over the world yesterday, it was a pretty copacetic day, oh, other than that a Golden Retriever followed us on our walk and I thought Edsel was going to have some kind of breakdown. He kept looking behind us and whining, and pulling, and making groan sounds like Regan in The Exorcist.

The Golden Retriever was lovely of course, all gleamy and long-furred, and the asshole girl walking him (TAKE ANOTHER STREET. You can tell my dog is obsessed. GOD) was young and cute. It was like our more-attractive selves were walking behind us. Some young perfect blonde girl in her running shorts, walking perkily, then my hagged-out 50-year-old ass galumphing with underbite dog.

Next time I'll let Edsel go, let him kick that golden dog's magnificent ass.


Oh, and Iris relaxed. She's exhausted at night these days, it being her busy season and all.

Okay, goodbye America. Other than the Dakotas. Go fuck yourself, Dakotas who don't read me.


June the puss

P.S. Updated map at 9:27 a.m., thanks to Amish Annie…

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Served by Mr. Salty and Buddha


There're a brief few days every spring where Peg's dogwood meets my redbud across our driveways, kind of a Hands Across America of blossoms, and it's so pretty, but it's been so cloudy that I wasn't able to capture it well. I hope it's sunny today. I never check the weather. I'm always stunned that people know what the weather's gonna be like. I'm all, "How do you KNOW that? Are you some kind of sorcerer?"

I prefer to be surprised. The druids never knew what the weather was gonna be, and they got along okay.

The first time Marvin and I ever Did It was the same day as Hands Across America, which has always sort of cracked me up.

Hi, Marvin's mom, whom I think still reads my blog.

I really have no idea who reads this stupid blog or not. Ned told me one of his ex-girlfriends still does, and I was surprised, but HEYYY, Not Harriet! I've always liked you. Also, his uncle, the nicest guy on earth, still does, too, because Ned told me he asked about Tallulah and how we were doing here and all that. Hey, Ned's uncle. You're welcome for that inside guff on the Hands Across America thing.

Who else reads me who knows me in real life? The other day there was a little exchange between commentors, and one of them said, "How do you know June? I went to high school with her." I was all, You DID? I still have no idea who that was, but Dear Person I Went to High School With: My readership extends beyond people who know me. Yeesh. Arrogantly, June.

Anyway, tell me. Tell me how you know me, and where you're living, and if you DON'T know me, tell me where you live. I always like to see where everyone is. Makes me feel cozy, just all of us snuggled up here across America. OR THE UNIVERSE.

How do you know June. GEEZ.


We had a relatively quiet weekend here at house of pie, and I hate myself for calling it that. After I last wrote you, the only other social thing I did was go see My Big Fat Greek Wedding II, electric boogaloo, and sometimes it's nice to be broken up with Ned. Because he would RATHER DIE, he would RATHER VOTE FOR DONALD TRUMP, than go see a movie like that.

The only issue I had with it was Lot's Wife made the popcorn. I know you've missed me pulling that joke out for a change. I ate only half the bag, it was that salty. Maybe Mr. Salty got a job at the theater. Hey, times are tough. I wonder if he resents having to serve popcorn when he spent his whole career being a competitive snack. I wonder if he's twisted up inside over it.

I didn't see a human pretzel making the popcorn, but what I did see was that guy who works there who looks just like a Buddha. He's thin, but he has this Asian, serene face and he looks like he should be on a necklace or something. He also gets your snack items serenely, and guess who is not serene when he does that?

In fact, it was crowded as shit at that theater yesterday, and I was all, Who ARE you people? Isn't this supposed to be the Bible Belt? Shouldn't you be at all-day worship talking about a sepulcher? What the fuck with you ham-less movie-goers? It was 2:30 in the afternoon. I thought I'd have the place to myself. But no. Line out the goddamn door.

After that line, there was a line for popcorn served by Mr. Salty and Buddha, and I was two families back when I saw this woman in the next line on one of those scooter things for one leg, you know, the thing people who have an injury use to scoot around on with the other good leg? She had that contraption, her popcorn, and a beer in her mouth.

"Do you want some help?" I asked her.

"Oh, I would! Thanks!"

I walked her back to theater three while she talked about her injury and how hard it was to navigate and how she didn't know this theater served beer and that she was so excited to have a beer, as it had been months. She was going to see some terrible movie with death in the title, I forget what it was, not a cerebral film such as My Big Fat Greek Wedding II, and anyway when I got back the line had dissipated and I was rewarded with Salt Block II, Electric Boogaloo popcorn.


We really need to bring back the scarf-rolled-up-tied-around-the-forehead look. I think that was a look during Hands Across America. And now you're picturing me in a passionate embrace with Marvin, a scarf tied 'round my perm. Yes, there was a perm. Of course there was.

It took me the whole decade to finally say, Hey, Curly, why the perm? Doesn't this seem redundant?

Anyway, it was okay. The movie, I mean. The Greek Wedding movie. They got absolutely everyone to come back to be in it, which was pretty cool. Even the old grandma. As opposed to the infant grandma.

Photo on 3-28-16 at 8.18 AM #2

In case you were worried about Edsel, you can see he's doing great. Now he's melting off chairs; he's Salvador Dali dog. Poor Edsel. It's the persistence of memory.

Before Tallulah's untimely demise that was my fault, I filmed her doing just everything. Snoring, wagging at me, harrrring. Yesterday I missed her so much that I got on the computer and played the "Harrrrr" video, and when Edsel heard her voice he ran into the room. Then I felt like a dick for doing that to him.

I'd better go dry my hair and get a scarf around my forehead.

Don't stick your finger in that boogaloo, it's electric.


June "Shabba-Do" Gardens

[Don't forget to say how you know me or where you're from.] [Bracketedly, JOOOON]

The Saturday that feels like Sunday

If you're a parent, lemme just ask you something hypothetically. Let's say you're, oh, to throw a scenario out there, at Target with your kid on a busy Saturday afternoon. Let's say your kid is crying loudly in the cart, and keeps screeching, "WANT TOYS! WANT TOYS! WANT TOYS! WANT TOYS WANT TOYS WANT TOYS!!!!"

How do you keep from, you know, screaming as loudly as possible, "SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU FUCKING FUCK OF A CHILD"?

Seriously, how do you not do that? I'd really like to know.

Still looking into fertility treatments! Wish me luck!


In the meantime, Edsel and I are busy adjusting to our new life. Edsel's got the Blu. BAHAHAHAH. Today I went to the pet store, and also Target, and I'll bet you had no idea I went to Target today, and anyway I got Eds a new collar that's more befitting his new position as alpha.


I replaced his fruity blue collar with a bowtie with a fruity no-nonsense brown with a bowtie collar. What's with PetSmart and Target only selling nylon collars? They wear out and get dirty. Leather's where it's at. Just ask Fonzie. I guess Fonzie liked Pinkie, not Leather, didn't he? Anyway, you can see the new manly collar has made a huge difference in his feelings about his new position. Edsel's, not Fonzie's.

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I've gotten so many flowers these past few days that you'd think someone had died or–oh, wait. Also, everyone keeps asking me to go out and do things, and I can so see the conversations before the invitation is extended.

"Wow, June's had a rough go of it. I guess we should invite her to our [insert event here]."

"Oh, god, do we HAVE to?"

"Yeah, I think we do. Let's drink before she gets here."


One of the Alexes invited me to her roof to drink after work on Thursday. She's a stepchild. BAHAHAHAHA. She's a Stepford Wife. She's a Stairmaster. Okay, I'm done. I was a social climber and joined the party.


Here we are, up on the roof. I totally looked for James Taylor and he was nowhere to be found. I can just hear Alex asking. "Who's James Taylor?"


Oh, and I forgot. My neighbor Peg brought me a potted plant just to be nice, without even knowing she was giving me a sympathy plant. She visited yesterday and Lily bit her. Taking over where Tallulah left off with the abhorring Peg.


Also, Faithful Reader Happy brought me an azalea, which I am going to plant today. Yes, I DO need the grass cut. The lawn guy has the flu; he's coming Monday. He's the same guy who power-washed and is gonna paint my house. More on him in a minute, as he was part of today's dog rescue.

So, Thursday I went to Alex's roof, Friday Peg visited and got bitten, then Friday night my coworker Austin texted me. "We're having a couple over and we're ordering Mexican food. Why don't you join us?" His wife was probably already doing shots while he texted, just in case I said yes.


Austin and his wife just bought a house in my general neighborhood, a house that's had one owner till now. I would SO KEEP this wallpaper in the kitchen, but I feel like maybe they were not on my page. I would keep ALL the wallpaper in the house.

Right? Why would you replace this? His daughter, who is approximately four to 11 years old, told me, "I like glitter too, but not on my wallpaper." I mean, who raises a child to think this way? GLITTER SHOULD BE EVERYWHERE.

RIGHT?? We need to start a Save the Wallpaper movement. Because Austin's decorating is 100% our business.

"That's just what our friends told us," Austin's wife told me, and she meant the friends who were also coming over to eat Mexican food. She knew I'd like them, as they are my people, and the husband, the husband–are you ready??–the husband IS AN ARTIST WHO COLLECTS PICTURES OF PEOPLE HE DOESN'T KNOW.


Dear June: Stop saying "right" like that.

Oh my god, it was so great to meet someone who has my disorder. He did a whole installation of pictures he calls sweetheart pictures, that he collects, that are of women who went to the studio and had their picture made for some sweetheart overseas or whatever. They have writing on them usually, like To Bob, Love Lois and so on.

We could have talked all night re this, and of course we talked about Norma and Vern, and see, just telling you about it again I get all excited and I start thinking about how much I FUCKING LOVE looking at pictures of people I don't know and how I have to get back into it again.

Everyone else there was so over us.

But here's another good part. There's a bunch of stuff in Austin's new attic, left over from the other owners, and part of why he had us over was to go through it to see if there was anything we wanted.


Was there anything we wanted. Pfft.

Oh my god, letters and photos and yearbooks and even a wedding dress.


I ended up taking a Holly Hobbie photo album of a bunch of schoolmates' class pictures. Oh my god, that was so fun.


A fine Arab Charger. Why was everything horses in the '70s? You couldn't swing a dead horse without coming across a horse trapper keeper, or a movie about a horse, or run calling Wildfire.


Incidentally, here's Austin's family's absurdly cute dog. I knew you'd want to see it. I know my audience. You need to get some strange every once in awhile, look at a new dog. Hey, it's biological. It's how we're wired.


This morning, Kayeee and Marty came over ("Do we HAVE to visit?" "Yeah, I think we do. Here's my emergency scotch."). After they visited, I screamed over to PetSmart and Target, and now we're full circle. But on the way back from the store, I was on my street and I saw a dog in a yard.

"Goddammit. Is that a loose dog?" I asked, and right then I knew. It was a black and gray splotchy dog, a Catahoula-looking dog, and naturally I pulled over and got out my car.

"Hi, baby doggie!" I said, and all dogs hate me as a result.

"WOO WOO WOO WOO WOO! grrrrrr," said Baby Doggie, who wanted no part of June's Dog Rescue and Kidnapping services. The grrrr scared me, but I couldn't just drive away, so to make a long story agonizingly longer, in the end an old man, the sea, a young girl who was a nurse and my neighbor who power-washed my house all gathered round and got that dog back into his goddamned yard, all the while with his owners nowhere to be seen.

So the good news is he didn't get hit by a car, and the better news is I don't already own a new dog. So. IMG_8626
new dog? heer? but wut about edzel new pose ishun?

Yours in brevity,


You’ll never guess what Ima write about


Well. It's over. If you're my Facebook friend you'd have no way of NOT knowing this, as I think I updated my status 3949943 times yesterday. And it's way awfuller than I thought it would be. I mean being my Facebook friend. And losing Tallulah.

Where did I put her last?



Tuesday evening, Ned called and said he was at a nearby restaurant, and could he come over and say goodbye to Talu. Lu loves the crap out of that guy. Loved. Oh, god.


She loved him, but she also never forgot that Ned and I used to fight like banshees.

So although she let us visit, she kept watch just in case. We used to call her the rufferee. If we started getting terse with each other, she'd come in from wherever she'd been and put her paw on one of us and grunt. can't all just get 'long?

Yesterday morning I woke up and stretched and punched her right in the nose. Hey! Happy death day! Is my dog mom of the year award coming by mail, or…?


Tallulah got steak for breakfast. And all her life she's always wanted to try my avocado and I kept it from her because I heard it was bad for dogs (POIIIIISON for dogs, June), and yesterday? Tallulah had my avocado. It turn out, avocado do be delishus.


I was kind of trying to follow her lead yesterday and do whatever she wanted to do, and I've never really noticed before that she really follows me to see what I want to do. So finally I read my book on the deck while she sunned herself. You can see her back foot is hurt, too. I honestly think that was also some kind of cancer. It wouldn't get better even though I'd taken her to the vet for it four times. It got worse while she got worse, so.


"Hey, Talu, you wanna go to the dog park?" I asked her, and I couldn't believe she still knew the phrase "dog park." Hell yeah, she wanted to go to the dog park. I took her every day of her life to that place, from puppyhood till she was probably two, when one day she bullied a poodle and everyone else in the park yelled at me and said Tallulah "plays too rough" and "doesn't know when to quit." TO BE FAIR, there's a big-dog section and a little-dog section, and if you're gonna bring your pussy-ass white fluffy fuckstick poodle to the big-dog section, maybe you should prepare yourself for a larger real dog pushing over your poufy excuse for a dog with her real-dog snout.

Perhaps I'm still bitter.

I left that day and never went back, which is exactly how the grandmother I'm turning into would have handled it (my relatives are nodding their heads ruefully right now).


Just by habit, I took her the long way, through the regular park, for what's probably a 20-minute stroll to what they call the bark park, and yes, I rolled my eyes just now too. Bark park. Oh for fuck's sake. Anyway, I realized halfway in that this would kind of irritate her parts, and she stopped to try to pee 109 times on the way there.


We walked through a field of forget-me-nots, though, on the way there.

The damn BARK PARK was full of fucking people, and who ARE these people that they don't have jobs on a Wednesday? I was nervous as I let go of Lu's leash and she ran in. Dogs ran to her to sniff her, and it went without incident. I was just starting to relax when two things happened at once. She came to me, whining, which has never happened before, and the cutest gray pit bull puppy with a white bib started not leaving her alone. As soon as I saw her hackles go up, I got her outta there.

Still, she seemed happy to have revisited her old bullying grounds.


When we got home, I had–and here's where I sound like my mother–SUCH PRETTY FLOWERS from a bunch of you readers, the more bitchy ones, like Paula H&B and Letha and so on. My mother has never once referred to flowers without calling them "pretty." "It's getting warmer and my pretty flowers are all blooming, honey."

Lu had turkey lunch meat, an entire sleeve of Do-See-Dos and a nice nap, where I pretty much laid on her and Yoko'd her the entire time.



My boss had suggested I bring Talu for our daily three o'clock walk with coworkers, which was an excellent idea. A bunch of them had met her before, at various parties and so on, and they all wanted to wish her farewell. Usually maybe five of us go on a walk, but Tallulah warranted a much bigger turnout.

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She kept up as best she could, but she really had to stop to try to pee every few yards. And nothing was coming out. I know I did this at the right time. She could still have fun, but it was getting more difficult. I didn't want it to get to the point where she couldn't even take a walk.


This is the last picture I'll ever take of Tallulah and me, and it's an asshole selfie-in-the-car pic. Still, I love how happy her eyes are, and that she's smiling.

I don't want to talk about the vet coming, because it's awful. But I will say two things. One is that Edsel stayed far away from everything, whereas normally he's up in your business every second. The other is that Lily got on the bed, where we did everything, and she never left. She watched over Lu the whole time.

Edsel had torn out the door into the back yard, and was barking like a lunatic. "The last thing she'll hear is Edsel barking," I said to the vet. "Those are the sounds of home," the vet told me.

Edsel barking her out of this life made me think of Dances With Wolves, when Wind in His Hair yells at Kevin Costner's mullet. (Go to about 15 seconds in.)



I'd had several people offer to come over yesterday, and I kept telling everyone I just wanted to be alone, the way I want to be alone if I'm throwing up. But last night was difficult. Ned called me and I was crying so hard I couldn't even form the words. "I'll be right there," he said, and minutes later, he was. All I did was sit around and cry, and hold Lu's collar, and I'm sure I was tons of fun.

Anyway, to everyone who called or texted or IMd me on Facebook or emailed or sent me things, thank you. It was nice to know I wasn't alone in this. I tried to answer everyone but sometimes I was very busy with the weeping, and it better burn calories to weep, is all I can say.

I hope there's a dog heaven, and if there is, I hope Lu got to take one long, satisfying pee before her poodle dinner.

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My sweet Tallulah, who was often not remotely sweet.

Tomorrow, Wednesday, is Tallulah's last day. Her nights are always restless now, and there are other details about her health that I will spare you.

Today she's gonna go to dog daycare, a thing I can ill afford at present, because it turns out getting your house power-washed and your mortgage paid during the same pay period is not all that fiscally wise. Aren't you glad I didn't say wi$e? But I'm doing it anyway. I know Lonnie at the daycare place will be sad when I tell him. He's known her since she was a bouncy little pup who'd sleep on other dogs during the day.

Tomorrow at 4:00, the vet will come here, after Talu has had the best fucking day a dog can have. If I can work out letting the neighbors let her eat that puggle Mandy, I will do it.

Tallulah has garnered a lot of admirers, from here to daycare to the neighbors to my friends. First of all, she's hot and she knows it, and also she's so smooth. She'd be Ann Margret if she were a person. I mean, barrel chest and teensy waist and all. So, really, any attention she's gotten in this life, she's well deserved.

Anyway, I guess I don't feel like saying much beyond that. I feel like I'm losing a true friend.


June is in a sparkling mood

My mood is sparkling. Did I mention that?

My computer has been a DICK all weekend, and I hate everything right now. This is my third attempt at writing something, and we'll see if it even sticks. Did I mention I hate fucking everything? Did I mention how much I was on the phone with Apple Care this weekend? I don't even LIKE apples.


So, I'm writing this Sunday night and setting it to publish on Monday morning, and I know that THROWS some of you off, so I'm just gonna warn you right now that for the next three weeks I'm doing an Oprah/Deepak meditation, so all my posts for the next 21 days will be written the night before and set to post the next morning.

If this gives you the angina, my suggestion is that you probably need the Oprah/Deepak meditation.


On Friday night, I went to a surprise party for one of my friends, who was turning 40, and there was a child there with shoes that (a) look like pink cats and (2) smell like strawberries, and if I could find such a shoe for me, I would never be sad again not even when my computer's a DICK that SPOOLS all day fuck computers.


On Saturday afternoon I had a lunch date with A Younger Man, and coo coo kachoo, Mrs. Robinson. Clearly I was asked out because my personality is lovely, and my mood is sparkling all the time. I had lamb stew, Clarice. He got fish and chips. It was kind of nice to be out with someone who eats fried food, but then again he's 14, so.


Here's me on the way to the date; this was not my date. If I went on a date with someone who looked like me it'd be weird and also I'd be a lesbian. I wonder if I went out with myself if I'd get annoyed. I wonder if the date version of me also had fucking fucking computer fucking problems all weekend.


After lunch, I took him to the local bookstore, and also to my friend Kit's vintage store where we perused old Playboys and saw Uma Thurman's breasts, which right there made it a good time. How many men can say they went on a date and saw Uma Thurman's breasts? Ethan Hawke and this guy. That's who. Then it got late and his mom was totally gonna ground him if he missed curfew, so my date went home. He already asked me out for next weekend, because Still Got It.

Also, because Sparkling Personality.


I decided to stop at the coffee shop after, and ran into one of the Alexes from work.


This is also not a picture of my date, see above ref to not generally a lesbian. This is the Alex from work. She doesn't work at my work anymore, so we had a lot to discuss about our lives and so on. She reads my blog, so really everything I told her was old news and there's really no point in me talking to anyone about anything anymore.


Mostly, the rest of the weekend I hung out here and felt hungry. I've been on Weight Watchers for a week now, and lost two measly pounds even though all I am is HUNGRY ALL THE TIME and MOOD IS SPARKLING. I made popcorn and shared it with the dogs, as I am wont to do.

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The dogs probably burned off more points catching the popcorn than they did eating the popcorn. See what happens? You get on Weight Watchers and your whole world becomes points. Points of sparkling mood. Those spots on the floor are permanent. The ones by the sink are a burn of some sort and the ones by the other room are from when I tried to coat that room with the damn concrete floor that's peeled again.

Mood. Sparkling.

Well, evening is upon me, and I think I'll retire to the couch and open a wrist. But I'll talk to you tomorrow, which for you means Tuesday and for me means Monday. Which skeeves you out and now you have hives. How do you think I feel? That brownie I had at the coffee shop was 15 points.


Less of June

Black lab

I schlepped my ass all the way to the doctor this morning for some labs, because yes, my doctor is giving away free Labs, and you know if that were true I'd go.

No. I was supposed to have labwork done. "Okay, but can I get in right at 8:00?" I asked. "I have to be at work at 8:30." Sure, they said.

7:52 I got there and the door was locked. Frowny emoticon. 7:58 a nurse walked in. "I'd let you in, but I don't have a key." Finally, someone had a key. "Our internet is down and no one's in the lab yet. So just go on back there and wait."

I waited in a dark hallway till 8:05, and I'm sorry if it makes me a horseshoe-haircut, lemme-speak-to-the-manager type, but I left.

So now I'm home with 10 minutes to blog at you, and it always makes Faithful Rdr Paula nervous when I say that, as she feels like she has to read in a hurry.

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Today someone's coming to give my house a bath, and on Monday he's gonna paint this bitch. This is not something I can precisely, you know, afford at present, but it has to be done so that my house doesn't look sad. Truthfully, my house really is the cutest on the block, and I hate to brag but it is. Okay, maybe Peg's is as cute as mine. We rule the block. Still. I want to keep its 50s-ranch splendor. Look, it's not a mansion, but it's mine. Like, 10% mine. Shut up, bank.


Oh, who's this? A cat. Guess I'll keep it.


Also, it's time for The Changing of the Purses. I'm finally 100% happy with my winter bag, but my summer bag leaves something to be desired. I require a pocket out front to hold my phone, and a compartment inside for migraine meds, and also it has to be a delightful color such as pale blue or pink.

As it stands, I have a seafoam bag I like but it's not big enough. Story of MY life.

Edsel throw you his sexee look.

Someone is coming NEXT week to talk back yard grass. Mostly he said it's useless because of the big tree. So we're discussing options. Maybe I should sell all these animals and move to a teensy apartment.


I love it when she does something perky like run through the yard. I took those through the screen door, hence that it resembles a paparazzi shot. You know, my pictures are rarely blurry anymore, but does anyone say that? Nooooo. When they used to be blurry, oh, you couldn't get ENOUGH of mentioning THAT. But now? Clear. And compliments? None. Damn, Daniel.

I have to get to work. Remind me to tell you all about the Edsel/Lily fight, though. They seem to have gotten past it now, but things were ugly for a minute.

weee workin' it owt.

Literally wearin’ the green

Aye! See, I want to talk Irish to you but I keep sounding like a pirate. Ahoy! It's St. Patrick's Day, matey! Arrrrrr!

As I told you yesterday, with my cliffhanger headline, my Aunt Mary sent me a box of pants. She loves to shop, see, it's kind of her hobby, see, and now she's retired. This means she has all kinds of time to peruse her closets and her tubs of clothes from other seasons–yes, she's one of those people who has to put away winter clothes and get out summer clothes and probably fall and winter clothes–and she found all kinds of pants in my size with tags still on them.

"I have all these pants. Want me to mail them to you?" she asked me. Of course I did.

The point of my story is (a) pretty much my whole life, my Aunt Mary has dressed me and (2) among all the pants was a silky tank top that's bright blue on one side and green on the other. It's reversable, see, and I don't know why I have to keep saying "see" all the time. IMG_8343
eyeriss resent.

So I now actually have a green thing to wear today, which is exciting, because in general I don't, as green is not my color, and most of the rest of the year I will wear the blue side of my tank top because I look good in blue.

People also seem to like me in brights, further proving the '80s were right about me being a winter. Plus I'm as cold as ice. I'm willing to sacrifice our love. I never take advice. Wow, that really is my theme song.

Anyway, aye! I be wearin' the green, Katie Scarlett. For land is the only thing that matters.

You should talk to me in real life. All my accents end up sounding like Rik, my idiot Italian neighbor in LA, or Ville, this Finnish guy I went to school with. Finnish-ing school.


This day gets my Irish up.

I remember my grandmother, not the one I'm turning into but the other one, the nice one, getting ready for some event on St. Patrick's Day. She had on a green rhinestone pin I was seriously wanting to single white female her on, and she was spraying on her signature Emeraude, and I thought, "St. Patrick's Day is my favorite holiday." I was forever making sweeping statements to myself like that, as opposed to now, with my I'm gonna lose 30 pounds and so on.

Actually, I've done pretty well sticking to my Weight Watchers, except for Famous Amos, who lives in the vending machine to fuck me up. This week it's double chocolate Famous Amos, and what Amos is gonna be famous for is sucking my dick, with his cookie deliciousness. Also, someone brought in delicious macaroons to work yesterday and I had almost a sexual reaction to them.


Oh, mama, I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law.

They weren't on the "anyone can take it" table, so all day I thought about them and wished for them and looked up how many points they'd be, and at the very end of the day, the person at work WHO I DON'T KNOW offered me one, because I must have been looking at her like Tallulah. Do you think the part where I kept putting my paw insistently on her was unprofessional?

That macaroon was delicious. It was every bit as good as I thought it would be, and so what. Oprah's eating bread on Weight Watchers, and right now bread is a Nazi, but of course sugar is currently Beelzebub, so you can't win.


Anyway, spring is here in North Carolina, and I can't wait for the Facebook updates where everyone capitalizes the word "spring." On our three o'clock walks at work now, we walk through the neighborhood near work and it's lovely. All the ducks are pairing up and it's only a matter of time before I become obsessed with duck babies. Also I'd like to note ducks can find a mate and I can't.

I'd better duck on out of here and go to work. I hope no one fucks me up with any macaroons today. It was like the last temptation of Christ up in there yesterday.

Chubbily, and arrrrrrrr!


Lillee celebrate spring with delish uss bird in her teef.

I didn’t even get to tell you that my aunt sent me a box of pants

I saw the Snowflake children.

If you're a longtime reader of this blog, and really? You poor thing. Has your family told you you can't mention me anymore? Anyway, if you are, you'll remember three very loud, very blonde children in my neighborhood who were forever playing outside like it's 1969, whom the dogs and I would run into on the regular.

"HI, ETHEL! HI, LALUUULA!" It did not matter how many times I told these kids the dogs' real names, they still called them Ethel and Lalula. I've been avoiding their street because they now have a very loud, very not-blonde dog who seems mean and like he'll jump over the fence one day and kill us dead. But yesterday Ethel and I said fuck it and we walked over there. And as we got closer, there were two of them. Children, not mean dogs.

"Gee, June, why didn't you walk all the way home, get your phone, walk all the way back and take pictures of what're now teenaged children? You won't look like a perv at all. Plus I'm sure you had time."

I didn't. I didn't have time. But one was on the swingset with headphones on, and the other was further back in the yard being teenagery. They didn't even look up while I walked by, even though their dog was having a hootenanny over at the fenceline, barking and growling and calling Acme to order a ladder.

I feel like the excitement of the reunion was one-sided.

The reason I didn't have time to go home and come back and take pervy pictures of teenaged girls is because I was on my way to the movies. There was a documentary on Muhammad Ali playing at the old movie theater; it was about his years as a Muslim and conscientious objector. I mean, he's still a Muslim. You know what I mean.

It was being shown in the part of the theater called "The Crown," meaning the very top, there, smartie, and it holds maybe 30 people up there, and I just knew Ned would be thinking of going, as well. So I called him.

"I'm going to that movie tonight and I just wanted to warn you," I told him in a message. I mean, it wasn't in a bottle or anything. "I'm going alone, so…" I was hoping that if he was going with some hot woman he'd warn me. Or even a schleppish one.

On my drive home from work and to the voting place (I couldn't figure out how to drive there from work other than to go all the way home and drive there from my house. I shouldn't TELL people these things), the phone rang. It was Ned.

I decided to answer the phone all sexy, the way my mother used to. He knew that story. Back when I was a teenager and I sat on swingsets with headphones on, not looking up, my mother was single and ready to mingle. When the phone rang, she'd answer it in this husky voice, and I wish I could imitate it for you.

Oh, wait. I can. We have the technology. …You ready?


But nine times out of ten it'd be a call for me, and then she'd go ahead and get her normal voice again.


Anyway, I answered the phone that way when Ned called. "Hulooooouuu," I said, all breathy. Ned laughed. "You realize you sound like that woman in Who Ate Roger Rabbit," he said, all matter-of-factly.

Who Ate Roger Rabbit.

"It's not called Who Ate Roger Rabbit, Ned," I told him, and he realized that was true. The point is, we met in front of the theater and walked up to The Crown together. We took the steps, and at the second floor I started heading for the door. "It's not on the second floor, June. It's called The Crown because it's on top. 'Join us at The Crown, in the middle of the theater…'" Ned said, and I'd like to once again say Who Ate Roger Rabbit.

I never actually saw that movie. Because cartoon. Not usually drawn to cartoons.

Anyway, it went without incident. The director was there, and people asked him pressing intellectual questions, and then the evening was over and I went to my car and Ned went to his. "Want to go get a drink somewhere?" he asked me, but I did not. So now I'm back to answering the phone like a husky. Single and ready to mingle.

I kind of miss those heady days of the phone ringing, and you had no idea who it was gonna be, and then it might could be some boy calling who likes you. I remember the first time my high school boyfriend, Cardinal, called me out of the clear blue sky. People always say that. I guess the clear night sky wouldn't be as dramatic. You're always expecting things to fall out of the night sky.

Anyway, my Uncle Leo had been Cardinal's teacher in elementary school, and they'd stayed friends, and sometimes Cardinal would drop over for a visit. He did one night in 10th grade, and my Uncle Leo forced him to look at family slides, and why does anyone drop in on my Uncle Leo? The point is, there were pictures of me, all dressed up in my grandma's clothes, walking my teensy cousin Katie down the street. I'd decided that would be hilarious, and there I was in cat-eye sunglasses and a babushka and gramma shoes, and for some reason Cardinal, who vaguely knew me as someone at school, said, "Break me off a piece of that" and four months later, he did.

Hey, mom. "Hulllouu."

Oh my god, I have to go. Time moves so quickly here.

[sexy voice] Goodbye.