Eyebrows Light and Dark · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · My pets

In which June would kill Agatha all over again

But I already TOLD you about my weekend, because a picture paints a thousand words.

Then why can't I paint you?


(This might be the best of all the horrific videos I've ever given you.)

So okay, so I'll give you a synopsis, because you know how brief I am, in case you didn't look at my nice pictorials I gave you on Saturday and Sunday. Mostly, I cleaned. And Marty and Kayeee and Jo came over. Kaye stole all Jo's Es.

All my laundry is done–ALL of it. The only thing in the hamper is a pair of jeans that I wore yesterday and may or may not have gotten melted cheese on. Hashtag, still a health nut.

Also, either this was happening–and Lottie can't KEEP her ears going one way–or this was…

IMG_0024 IMG_0026
…with Lottie observing Edsel's every move, like he has the answers to life. Edsel is showing Lottie how to dog, and god help us, everyone. Remember when hippies would sometimes pick someone really bad to be their guru? Yeah.

There were also dog fights, but they were fights for good, not evil. IMG_0005

edzul eet puppeh

Thank god I also had human interaction, because sad.


Humans came over and ALSO looked at my animals.

We all went to dinner, Marty, Kayeee and Jo and me, and I was complaining about Kaye's evil, endless budget she has me on. "What if I actually meet a man, and he thinks he likes me till he notices my eyebrows aren't waxed?" I kvetched.

"So, if you don't wax, his interest will wane?" asked Marty, and that is when he got down on one knee and gave himself a promise ring.

Oh, and I also had human interaction with the dog trainer. He came over so he could look at my animals.


Lottie was, of course, PERFECT again while he was here, sitting for him and doing downs and stays and giving him advice on his hedge fund. "I'm not just feathering your cap, here, but that really is a highly intelligent dog," he told me. Again. Goddammit. Again.

I wanted slow and dumb. I got Lottie.

"You weren't meant to have a mellow dog," said Kaye, who was there the day I said, Oh, no. I'm not ready for a puppy. Let me give perfect Stanley to a family. A stupid, undeserving family with some dumb child who in no way needed a puppy.

When I took this picture above, by the way, the trainer said, "She knows you're up to something." I was trying to be surreptitious with the camera, but Lottie already knows the score. You live in this house, you pose for a blog.

On Monday, I decided to get out and have the stink blown off me, as my father would say, so I put on real pants and headed to this rose garden I like to go to. I know I never promised you one, but here's the rose garden.


(Annoying local readers will send me the "Where was this?" messages.)

I love it there. I was thinking, on the drive over, that maybe I'd meet a nice man at the rose garden. Maybe he'd be at the rose garden because his dead wife always loved it there. Then I got annoyed with the dead wife, wondered why he had to bring her up every goddamn second of the goddamn day, and can't we just enjoy the rose garden without old dead Agatha coming between us again?

Then we broke up.

On my drive over, I got waylaid by a bike race, which was probably being thrown in memory of stupid-ass dead Agatha, and I had to wait till everyone on a bike went by. Which took forever. I had to yell, "I don't even know HOW to ride a bike" to approximately 10,000 bikers. Are bikers motorcyclists or are they people who ride bikes too? I have no idea. Go ask Agatha. When she's 10 feet talllllll.


During my interminable wait for the bikercyclists, I noted a little, I don't know, homage? Plaque? Stone? Monument? to Daniel Boone. My Uncle Leo would have gotten out of the car to read the plaque, but I just sat in my driver's seat feeling annoyed.


Imagine if you've just tuned in, and you wonder why June would be irked at a lovely uncontroversial figure like Daniel Boone. Also, when did I get those frowny lines around my mouth? Goddammit. I never frown. I'm often frowned upon, but…

I guess those are all the pictures I wanted to show you from my riveting weekend. This whole time I've been writing you, Lottie has either been trying to chew this chair or my robe. I took her over to her plethora of toys and said, "Here's your antler. It's the right thing to chew."

And then I borrowed Marty's promise ring to give to myself.

June's stupid life · My pets


Two things happened yesterday. Well, three. All dog-related. Go ahead and kill yourself now.

IMG_9837 IMG_9834
First of all, Lottisimo's ears popped up at some point between yesterday morning and yesterday at lunch. I went to work and she was a normal dog. Well, "normal." And I came home and it was like she'd had a wash and set. Now they flap all over yonder when she tears around the house, aka "is awake."

Screen Shot 2016-05-27 at 7.57.28 AM

Also, her DNA results came back. She's a Boxer/Pit/Golden retriever/Lab/German shepherd. As you do. And then there are some weird mixed results, but one of the ones they mentioned is she might have Rhodesian Ridgeback in her, and I have noted this roughness on the fur along her spine and I WONDERED if she had some RR.

They didn't tell me what percent asshole she is.

And you know, the last few days, I've been saying to her, "You're looking more and more pitty." I knew I saw some Pit in there. Lottie go Pit on yer ass. And Golden retriever. Beware.

Also, yesterday the trainer came. After I had my morning of crying the other day, I emailed this guy, who has a dog training business and is the husband of someone at work. "I'm about to day drink unless someone helps me with this dog," I wrote him.

So at lunchtime, he headed over. Have you ever worked with a trainer? Because your regularly scheduled asshole puppy sits all pretty and looks up at said trainer like he hung the moon, and you're all HOW DOES HE DO THAT?

"She's showing signs of being very intelligent," said the trainer.


Anyway, he suggested he maybe…divide his time, between Lottie and Edsel. I know! Can you imagine? And I don't even have to tell you how Edsel felt about a manly no-nonsense guy coming over WITH HOT DOGS IN A CAN.

Can you feel the luff tonite?

I did not take pictures during training, because do you know who would not have put up with such "lemme get m'phone" shenanigans? Is that trainer.

But the good news is at the end of the lunch hour, we were chatting in my back yard, and I noticed…play going on. I looked over, and the dogs were playing. My dogs were playing! It's like something shifted, just like Lottie's ears.

IMG_9829 IMG_9831
Oh, that grass. What did you guys say to do about it, again? Cause of course I've forgotten. What I WANT to do is build a deck, because no grass will really grow under my big tree and under my dogs' feets. But, money.

Speaking of which, Project Kaye is a Bitch, aka my budget, is going well. I called AT&T 249 times before I got anyone, and then it turns out contract and so on, so all I was able to do was lower my cell phone bill $10 a month. "As it is, you're on the $49 a month plan already," someone there told me, sacred cows braying in the background.

Do cows bray?

"You guys always say that," I said, "but then why is my bill always more than a hundred dollars?"

"Well, there's an installation fee, and a monthly line rate."

An installation fee. Why don't you chew on my silk bag of dicks? YOU DIDN'T INSTALL ANYTHING. IT'S A CELL PHONE. Assholes.

Probably when Lottie grows up, she'll work for AT&T.

I gotta go. The weekend yawns before me, and I keep saying that, don't I? I haven't had a date since I think March, when I went out with that really young guy and blew him off after. We had a nice time, I don't even know what my problem was. I guess I'm still not fucking ready to date. Goddammit. Also, apparently I'm dating dogs.

I've dated several men who I don't know why I wasn't feeling it, actually. So. Not ready. Maybe eventually some man will show up in a parking lot. I hope he has a large parking deck.

Talk to you later. It's a holiday weekend, and no one will read me. Should I do a wordless weekend where I take pictures and update them as the day goes by? Okay. Glad we had this talk. Go iron your white pants.


Mom of a GoldPitBoxShepLab

I am a pleasure of life · I am berserk · I am high-maintenance · I hate everything · June's stupid life

Everyone has everyone else’s circular

I'm sorry I didn't post yesterday. I was way busy crying. Oh my god, with the weepage.

it cud not be lotteee falt, cud it? Also, deer ant Poet: thank for for bone. lottee obsess.

As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, I have a Fitbit, which tells me how much I slept. The night before I found Lottie, I got 8 hours. Since I found Lottie? Five hours a night. With, like, 18 restless times.

At first, I'd put her in the bed with us, but she peed in the bed twice. So then I put her in the bathroom with that giant bed, above, which takes the whole floor, and she'd cry. Then I finally got the crate down thanks to the Tall Boy, and mother of god, does she hate that crate.


Oh, she chitters, she moans, she ululates. And Edsel and I never sleep. But I figured, you know, this will pass and I'll be okay not sleeping for awhile. I mean, what else can I do?

deer mother natchur: thank you for stick lottie just bring in. lottie obsess.

I just washed that bed.

Anyway, so that's happening, two weeks with not really enough sleep. And then as I've said 12 times, my job is completely different now. For 19 years, I came to work, proofread something all day, and went home. Now I'm rarely at my desk–I go from one meeting to another, and it's not what I'm used to. I get meeting notices at 10 o'clock at night. It throws me off. I'm over there trying to do something intellectual and relaxing like watch Parenthood, and PING! my phone goes off, and for 15 minutes I'm thinking about work again.

So I guess I'm on edge. Plus also there's my banging, active sex life. Woooo! Thank god I have that to fall back on. Oh, wait.

But none of this seemed all that bad, till yesterday morning, when Lottie woke up way before dawn in her crate. I took outside–I see a lot of my back yard at night now. I noticed the full moon, which reminds me of Lu, because she died during the full moon. This is the second full moon without her.

When we got back in, Lottie wouldn't sleep. She cried in her crate, and jaggled the metal, and barked, and talked about a revolution. It didn't sound like a whisper.

Finally, I got her out and brought her to the bed, hoping she'd been peed out. [Puppies are never peed out. The more you know. ********]

Did you enjoy my line of asterisks for the shooting star? You're welcome. Punctuation art, by June.

Anyway, she got on the bed with me and started lunging at my face. Lunge lunge lunge. It's what she does. And if you cover your face, she bites your hands. And if you yelp and act pained, which is what you're supposed to do, she gets riled up and bites harder and growls. She is going to grow up to be Lizzie Borden. You know how Lizzie Borden liked to bite faces.

Usually, I can deal with this. But yesterday, I said, "Please stop BITING ME," and that is when I started to cry. 

Both dogs just stopped in their tracks. Lottie turned her head sideways.

I thought maybe I'd cry for awhile, because tired and stressed, but no. I cried till 7, when the alarm went off. Then I made coffee and cried, took a shower and REALLY cried because I was out of soap. How the fuck do you run out of fucking soap? I had to use liquid hand soap from the sink.

Then I got dressed and cried, and as I drove to work, I said, Well, I'd better stop crying now. Cause, work.

When I pulled in, someone from HR was getting out of her car, too. Okay, this was good. No way could I cry in front of her.

I ended up looking down and walking briskly so she wouldn't see me.

IT WAS RIDICULOUS. I could not stop weeping. I had a meeting right away, but one of my coworkers, who I am also friends with, Molly, saw me and hid me behind the whiteboard in the back of the room. There's a little table there. She asked what was wrong, and really, what was wrong? Not that much. Just a little sleep deprivation and menopause and work stress. I mean, everyone has that kind of stuff. Right?

lottee dont.

She's in a phase right now where her head seems too big for her body, like she's in one of those big-head parades.


I forgot to tell you that that one day, remember that one day? When I asked what your parade would be? I think I said baby cats. Like, baby leopards and so on. Anyway, you all answered me as well. I asked my boss, fmr., and he said, "I'd want to see a parade where balloons are marching, and on a string they have people floating."

Who thinks like that? I kind of loved that answer.

Anyway, my weeping. Molly told me I didn't have to go to that first meeting of the day, which I'm sure would have gone well, me at it constantly crying like a miraculous Virgin Mary, so I just sat with my laptop behind the white board and answered emails and in an hour I had stopped.

I have no idea what that was all about, but people at work who have actual human babies said they were wrecks when they didn't sleep right. So.

After work, I took L and Eds on a "walk," which, with Lottie, is more of a sweep of the sidewalk. Across one lawn, under Edsel, across the other lawn, under Edsel, till Edsel's trussed up like a chicken. The point is, you know those circulars you get in your driveway? They're in a plastic bag like you're getting a newspaper but they're just full of coupons or whatever, asks the fiscal gal. You know those things?

YES, June, we got it. God.

At every driveway, Lottie would pick up that family's circular and carry it to the next driveway, where she'd drop it and pick up THAT circular. So, Dear Neighborhood: Everyone has everyone else's circular. The circular of life. Boom.

Say circular one more time.


So I guess I'm done crying now. Lottie, however, is just getting started on being a teensy wrinkly-headed asshole.




Chicken · June's stupid life · My pets

Edsel Joe McAllister


Lottie is such an asshole.


I feel like, if we could see her agenda, her datebook, it'd just be filled with appointments to annoy us.

Lottie Day Plannur

nyne fifteeeen: try to hump eyeriss.

five ay yam: wyne and skreech in crate. bownce against crate barrs. yap.

edsul would not be charged by jury off his peer.

I keep thinking about Stanley, and how sedate he was, and WHAT WAS MY PROBLEM? He was big and he was calm and he was great. But NO! Anyway, if I'd kept Stanley, then I'd have found Lottie and I'd have TWO puppies.

We gettin nother puppee?

Anyway, as those of you who've had puppies before and who aren't in jail for dog abuse know, they run around like assholes and then they pass out, much like fraternity boys.


And as much as she claims to hate that crate, which the Tall Boy finally came over and got down for me, Lottie always finds some kind of cave to sleep in, even if it's just burrowing under the couch pillows. Here she is between the couch and the side table, with her head on said table. Comfy.

Anyway, other than obsess over this puppy, here's what I did this weekend.


On Friday, after work, I went to happy hour with my coworkers. The reason all the drink napkins are wadded up and in the middle of the table is because…


…one of my drinking buddies kept chewing them. Damn you, Bitchy Resting Face Alex and your love of drink napkins.



When I got there, the bartender was all, "Lottie's here!" which is not at all a disturbing statement on my bar-going habits.

lottee gots a drunk mom. lottee totallee liza minelli rite now.

On Saturday, we headed over to Wedding Alex's house to see her new place, a truly lovely home in which I spent the whole time convinced Lottie was going to poo on. She didn't. You guys have sent her so many gifts, and if I didn't write to thank you it's because a lot of boxes came with no note, but THANK YOU oh my god. The point is, someone sent her this puppy crack: It's real chicken on a chewy stick. I brought one of those, and Lottie sat at my feet like an actual good dog while I visited with Wedding Alex.

Whoever sent me the real chicken on a chewy stick is my hero. It must have been cold there in my shadow.

You should see the stockpile of puppy food I have. I had to put bags in the closet of the computer room, fmr. Who was it the other day who was baffled by what "fmr." could mean? FORMER. It's an abbreviation of FORMER. See.

I also went to the gym yesterday and did NOT take Lottie to that one. I could be the asswipe who takes her puppy to yoga. As you know, all too well, I walk to the gym, and yesterday when I got there I realized you could hear the racquetballs hitting the wall. Back when Lu was really young, Marvin liked to walk her down there, just to mix up the route, and Tallulah always went berserk when she heard those stupid balls. It bugged her. She'd stand there and HARF! at the wall. I heard those stupid racquetballs and had such a wave of missing my Lu. And of remembering she was an asshole when she was a puppy, as well.

Oh! And SPEAKING of walking places, on Friday when I went to happy hour, I parked in this public lot, and A BIG DOG WITH NO OWNER walked up. He had a collar, and he was a friendly pitty pit, and for a minute there I was all, Mother of God. Now Ima come home with a big-headed pit. Edsel will leap off a bridge. He'll be Edsel Joe McAllister.

Fortunately he belonged to someone who was letting him WANDER AROUND OFF LEASH, and you know how I like that.


I also CLEANED MY PLACE from top to bottom this weekend, because I was letting it get ridiculous, and once my house gets ridiculous I get depressed. So I straightened and I scrubbed and I washed and I cleaned, and as soon as I did, it stormed really bad and the dogs tracked mud in all over.

"The dogs." See? I prefer that in plural. The dogs. The dog never sounded right.

Edsel just had loud gas that filled the room with a cacophony of noise like he was Herb Alpert, over here. What the hell is wrong with me and my chaos-addicted self?

Talk to you TOOT suite.


June's stupid life · Money · My pets

It turn out, puppies do be annoying

I gotta go in early today, but last night this happened:


Also, I think SiriusXM is sort of scammy. I called to cancel day before yesterday, and they said yes, okay, you're canceled as of the 17th. But then on the 17th, not only did I have Sirius Radio, I got CHARGED for the month.

I had to call them last night, and go through that whole rigamarole (account number? I have no idea. Marvin got me Sirius Radio on my 40th birthday. We lived in Burbank. I have no idea what our phone number was back then) ALL OVER AGAIN, and finally when they found me, they would not take no for an answer.

I got really mad. "Look (you always know you're a business in trouble with me when I say, "Look."), I called you two days ago to cancel. I shouldn't have to go through this all over again. CANCEL ME. I don't know how many other ways to say it."

"Okay, but ma'am, let me just give you one final offer."

Oh my god.

Do they not know that when they do this shit, we can all go on our social media and tell everyone else? We can literally go tell it on a mountain. So I Google fuckinged it, and sure enough, other people had the same complaint. At this point, it'd take Howard Stern knocking on my door to get me back.

Anyway. Now I've carried on, my wayward son, and I have got to go.


I'll talk to you tomorrow. I just wanted to mention, just one more thing before I go–and now I'm in the door with my purse and you're standing in the cold with no shoes–that at the end of the night, after Lottie has torn around here and annoyed just everyone, she gets on the couch and nests under the pillows. She makes her own den. Soon she'll order some wood paneling and build her own.

eyeriss show lottee her bitchz fangz. fuk off, lottee.

Film · June's stupid life · My pets

STELLAAAA! Oh, calm down.

IMG_9557 IMG_9478

Now that I'm out and so on, I can also tell you that I've been bringing Lottie places, so she won't be a nutbar like my last two dogs. When I got Tallulah, I started taking her everywhere, and she seemed scared, so I stopped. I didn't realize I had to just keep exposing her so nothing would be scary anymore.

The point is, Lottie got her drank on Saturday night, when I took her to a pub and she passed out. Made the Long Island Iced Tea rookie mistake. (I don't even think that place sells liquor, actually. It's a pub. I stupidly got the cider again and forgot it's lightly carbonated, and then I was all, This is broken. How many times have I done that, now? Topamax makes it so nothing carbonated tastes good. The other night, in a fit of desperation, I opened a beer Ned left here ages ago, and I was all, This beer is broken. OH MY GOD, TOPAMAX BRAIN.)


I also took her to the hairdresser, because that's a more-than-three-hour appointment. It's a lotta hair, man. Here she is pulling the tie on the little robe they give you. My hairdresser is probably 100% over me. "Probably."


(Just throwing this in to remind everyone I have other pets.) (WE STILL LOVE YOU, BORING ADULT PETS.)


I did NOT take Lottie with me to see A Streetcar Named Desire last night. I'd never seen that movie before, and oh, before you get all, "Aren't you on a strict budget, JONE," on me,

Jone. Oh my god.

Anyway, I don't think I ever told you that after Tallulah died, a few readers got together and made a donation to the old movie theater I love so much and go to all the time, in memory of Tallulah. She's a star donor there or something now, which kills me, and I have this laminated card that gets me in the theater for free. So suck it. Jone says suck it.

What the hell was going on in that movie? So, like, blonde Scarlett O'Hara is sort of nuts, and she sort of drinks, and it's because why? Did she kill her husband or did he kill himself? Was she a prostitute to make ends meet? Why was that the end of the world? #MakeEndsMeet. Oh my god, is that actually gonna link to some stupid hashtag? From now on Ima say NumbersSign and then the hashtag, just to seem older. Just when you thought Jone couldn't seem older.

So then hot Marlon Brando raped her? Why? Because she was an annoying housemate? And why was he always so sweaty? No one needs to be that sweaty, all the time. Hey, I'm playing poker {sweat sweat sweat}. Say, just got home from work {shvitz}. Good morning {waterfall}!

Also, I like how that was supposed to be a shitty apartment but it was cool as hell and just sort of messy. What squalor! With the floor-to-ceiling windows and the exposed brick! How DO you stand living that way, with that one shingle missing and that bare lightbulb? I guess that's the worst a gay guy could make a place look.

Tennessee Williams was gay, right? Let me Google.

…First picture I saw of him, I was all yeah. Gay. And right then I knew. But I did a Google search just the same. And yeah. Gay.

Pretty much the cigarette holder told us all we needed to know. But thanks, Google, for the effort.

Also, Dear Old Theater: You know, popcorn is good. We needn't DROWN it in salt in order to make it tasty. Good lord. I've retained all the water hot Marlon Brando sweated out.

Oh, also. These…PEOPLE, three of them, came in 15 minutes late, and they had FLASHLIGHTS, like it was the beginning of Colombo,


Say, Jone, what's with your memory, anyway? What's the seventh amendment to the Constitution? Oh, but the COLUMBO intro, THAT you recall.

Anyway, flashlights. Shining right on me like it was an inquisition. You remember the flashlights at the Spanish Inquisition. And then they sat down and commenced TALKING. THE MOVIE HAD ALREADY STARTED. Then they checked their PHONES and

Dear World:

Stop checking your fucking phones during the fucking movie.

Love, Jone

God, I hated those people. Almost as much as I hated Scarlett as a blonde. It did not become her. And all the fox furs in the world aren't gonna help those dark circles. Hock one of those things and get you some concealer.

All right, I gotta go. There is a puppy sleeping on my arm, which makes it easy to type, and she will be delighted when I get in the shower. No squealing like she's on the set of Deliverance or anything. Which is another movie I saw at the old theater, where Tallulah is a star member.

you going WEAR? you tayking WUT? Wat pupppee supposed to do?

I am berserk · June's stupid life · My pets

When water murks itself

A week ago, I was walking to my gym, not that I own a gym, which you'd think I'd have brought up before now. I walked past Peg's, past the snake-infested field, and I was just getting onto the first corporate parking lot, when I saw a groundhog.

I love me a groundhog. Perhaps all the world loves a stage–let's face it, I certainly do. But I also like a groundhog. At work, we used to see these two groundhogs every day, across the parking lot, and we named them Bill and Murray because we're in love with ourselves. Then they revamped the land at work and we stopped seeing those groundhogs. However, every day on our walks we take at 3:00, we see these same two old men, who we call Walkdorf and Statler (see above ref to loving ourselves)


and then one day it hit me. "The old men ARE the groundhogs!"

Everyone at work agreed that had to be the case.

But I digress. Because a week ago, when I was walking to the gym and saw a groundhog in the parking lot, my first thought was, "It's kind of small." My second thought was, "Oh, come fucking on."

I sat right down in the parking lot in m'yoga pants. I think I even whispered it out loud. "Come fucking ON." Because it wasn't a groundhog. It was a puppy.

It wasn't a rock. It was a rock lobster.

She was tiny, but sturdy, and yellow, with a black muzzle. There was no earthly reason for her to be alone in an empty parking lot. She seemed a little scared, but she came to me with a little whine. "Hi, honey," I whispered, feeling miserable.

There was no way this could be a puppy. There was no way. Why was this happening? If I brought home ANOTHER puppy, the whole world would think I was batshit. Why, of all the things to run across in a stupid office parking lot, WHY, did I have to run across a puppy?

Not one person was going to believe me.

I mean, what the hell was I gonna do? Leave her in some empty parking lot at 7 at night? Good luck! Drive to the closed shelter? Or even wait till morning and drive her there? Okay, bye, puppy. I'll just drive off and leave you to your fate. Just the idea of that makes me kind of cry.

Maybe I could roam the neighborhood again, hoping for a miracle.

My yoga pants and I took her home.

I swooped her all up and rushed her to the back room so Edsel wouldn't see, much like I used to sneak new clothes into the closet before Marvin found out.

And then I kept her a secret for a week. She was totally Anne Frank back there in my room.

Oh my god, it's been stressful. I didn't tell a soul. Well. Pretty much. I told my mother and she didn't believe me. "Is this like the time you just happened to find a kitten in your locker in 11th grade?" she asked. As god is my witness, in 11th grade, a gray fuzzy BEAUTIFUL kitten followed Mike Clark and Chris Czada to school, so they put her in my locker, knowing I'd take her. AS GOD IS MY WITNESS.

So then I really clamped down, like I had state secrets, over here. Somehow not being able to tell made it way harder.

I had East and West Germany, over here, with the dogs. When Edsel went in the back yard, I'd take her to the front yard. He knew something was up, but I pretended it wasn't. I'd take him on walks, acting like that squeaking from the bedroom was nothing. I'd return, be all casual. "I'll just, um, be back in awhile, Edsel. I gotta take this, um, human device that looks like a Kong to this room. Why don't you watch TV?"


During the day, since no one knew about her and therefore no one could help me get the crate down, I'd put one of the big dog beds in the bathroom. It took up the whole floor. Since she looked like maybe there could be Mastiff in her, I considered just waiting till she was 200 pounds and opening the door to reveal her to Edsel then. "Oh, look what's back here!"

In the meantime, I was getting migraines and not sleeping and having to turn down plans after work. "Oh! I can't! I have to…go home!" People must have thought I had some sort of randy 19-year-old boy there. Would that I were.

I guess "randy" 19-year-old boy is redundant.


Finally, I took her to the vet. My vet, of course, was the vet who'd put Tallulah to sleep, and she came around the corner, saw me holding a puppy, and burst into tears and hugged me.

It was the first moment I felt joy, and not shame, about this whole thing. I let her name my pup–I had a few ideas rolling around. I deeply wanted to name her Mrs. Wiggins, the secretary Carol Burnett played, because office parking lot. I liked Loretta, just because Loretta. It's a good name. You know I like vaguely slutty diner waitress names, such as, oh, Tallulah.


Meet Lottie. My vet thought that was the cutest name, so Lottie it is. Get it? Cause, parking lot? Yeah. Up there is after I said her name. She already knows it.

The vet and I had a long talk about Edsel. She said not to hover over them like a crazy person, to let them work their shit out. That sometimes Edsel will correct her for being an asshole, and that that's okay. I'm to let him growl and show his teeth if she's harassing him, and I'm to take her away if she's relentlessly bothering him, too.

"Do you think maybe there's Mastiff in her?" my vet asked.

Mother of god.


So, I introduced them. "Edsel, I don't know how to tell you this. She was in a parking lot and…" I said to Eds. He seemed to kind of know the score already. I mean, you can't really effectively hide a puppy in a small house. News flash.


And you know what? He's been good. He HAS shown his teeth to her, when she tries to take a toy from him, or when she bites his tail, and I sit there TRYING TO ACT CASUAL about it, which hasn't been easy. But I haven't chastised him, and OH MY GOD does she think Edsel's cool. He's like The Fonz of this house. Edsel is. I know, man. The other day he was barking at passersby, and she can't even SEE out the window yet, but she watched him, and then she threw back her head.

"BARK!" she squeaked.

Oh, good. Learn from Edsel. This is perfect.


Lottie has clearly lived with someone, and someone who had cats, because, man, does she love cats. Last night Lily was on my lap, and Lottie climbed up and lick lick licked her cat fur, a thing that appalled her at first but that eventually made her purr, as Lily is a slut.

Iris is not charmed. But she tolerates.


She never sits still. It's hard to capture her on film. And yes, of course I've sent in a DNA test already. What are you, new? Can't wait to hear that she's a Mastiff.

So, I'm feeling less anxious about the whole thing, but I have to say, this whole experience, and these past few weeks have made me rethink my blogging. I'm still ruminating for now, but I'm starting to wonder about how fun this is anymore. It feels less fun and more like hanging myself on a meat hook for Rocky to punch. When you tell the world about your world, the world feels entitled to comment on it. And judge it. And start vicious threads about you on social media. And you start to wonder, why am I doing this, exactly?

But that's something I can't decide today. Today, I have to teach an eight-week-old puppy to stop biting my feet when I walk.

hooo care?

Out and proud,


Beauty products · Fuck natural · In the kitchen with June · June's stupid life

Windows 9.0

Some mornings, I feed the cats while Iris is still out for her morning constitutional. My theory is she makes her rounds of all the baby nests in the area, patrols for new life and squelches it. Anyway, that was the case today, and when she finally hopped up into The Window That All Cats Sit In at my house,

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her breakfast was already there.

But this morning, she sat there uneating. Her food right below her. "Iris, your food is already there. Are you blin–oh."

Sometimes I forget.

Note I have zero pictures of Iris and Lily in that window.

I have a shit-ton of these, though.

They only ever go up to that window to eat, these particular cats do, not hang like all the other cats did. And before you ask, in order from top to bottom, those cats are

  • Henry, Winston, Francis
  • Anderson, Roger
  • Winston, Anderson
  • Roger
  • Ruby
  • A cat named Edsel

This house is bad luck for cats. No one tell that to my flower cats, who, really, have managed to survive longer than everyone else here, despite my throwing Lily onto the streets for 52 days and poisoning Iris with dog flea meds just recently, here.

Anyway, if you're wondering how June's Big Life of Budgeting is going (scroll down to yesterday's post, Annoying Pants), yesterday I went to a poetry reading, to see my friend The Poet read, and in case you thought they sold tickets to poetry readings, they don't. "Hey, man, you get tickets to that poetry reading? I gotta get scalpers or something. They were sold out."

I love this thoughtful art shot of The Poet. She's probably thinking about dicks.

Clearly right then she wasn't, you know, reading her poetry. Maybe someone else was, and I was politely taking photos with my cell phone, which I would never do, because appalling and awful. I think we were on a break. A poetry break. Anyway, that was free. And after, she came over, also free. I made her pay admission to enter my esteemed home, actually. So, profit.

Oh, and Faithful Reader Deb is sending me two (2!!!!) nail polishes to do my own pedicures. She wrote me and we picked out colors together. We gathered together to ask the Lord's blessing and also select nail colors. Here they are…

Screen Shot 2016-05-16 at 8.19.42 AM

This is Fancy.

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And this is Broody, and those pretty much sum me up. If only they carried "Bitchy."


I wonder if, when I wear Butter nail polish, I'll talk like Butters from Southpark. I can only hope.

I gotta go. I spent more time looking up cat-in-the-window shots than I did writing today, and that is somehow your fault. I forget why. But I'll never forget it, and how it affects our whole family.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, when I guess I'll finally get around to telling you about the following…

Anne Frankly,


June's stupid life · Money

No Need-y, No Buy-y

Do you remember a few days ago, when I said I wanted to get my affairs in order? Not because I'm going to croak, although I do feel a cold coming on. I said I wanted to get better about my finances, because I kind of live payday to payday, and do you know what I wish I had right now? Is a Payday. Oh my god, salty nuts AND nougat.

Why so shubby?

Shubby. Oh my god, why so type-y.

And didn't I just say last time that I had 79 dollars or something, and it was payday? So, see?

Well, my friend Kaye, of Marty and Kaye, wrote me the day I posted that. "I can help you get your money straightened out," she wrote me. "I can do all that. Marty can be your fun friend. I can be your practical friend."

Really, all my friends are my practical friend. Unless I start hanging with Courtney Love, that's probably always gonna be the case. Just the other day, I asked one of the Alexes I'm friends with at work for some advice. "I need a grownup," I said to her.

She's 27.

Anyway, so Kaye and I made a plan that she'd come over yesterday and we'd make, like, a … what's it called, a fudge it or a budgie or a bundt or something? This thing? With numbers? Where you plan what you're gonna spend? I don't know.


Kaye came over in stern taskmaster mode, and now I'm making this sound like it's about to turn into a story from the Penthouse Forum. "I never thought this would happen to me."

She had charts and folders and things, because Kaye's the kind of person who'd come over prepared with charts and folders and things. "So, you don't have to tell me how much you bring in if you don't want to. People get touchy about money."

Oh, please. Have we met? I told her all.

"Oh, okay. So you have quite a bit to work with. It's not that you don't bring home enough, June," she said. "It's just that you're spending too much. Let's go over what you spend each month."

"You wanna start with personal grooming?"

"I thought I'd save that till last," she said, looking peaked.

We talked mortgage and insurance and cable and pets (Kaye has one measly animal. One! Can you imagine? Who lives that way? I told her what I spend on vet bills and food and flea meds so everyone can get bladder cancer and boarding and bowls and treats and collars and at the end of that, she was all, "Are you sure? Wow.")

She asked about hobbies, and I was all, see above. Fur is my hobby. Lately, with all the proliferation of puppies going through here, I've been a fur trader. And then I said, "You want to get to personal grooming? Because, hobby."

But no. She wasn't ready. We talked Four Oh Wonks, and it's funny every time I make that joke. We talked Amazon Prime and Sirius Radio. We talked Weight Watchers.

We talked about what I'd be willing to give up and what had to stay. Like, she was all, can't you cut your own grass? And do you remember that one picture where Edsel was a puppy, and he wanted to play with the squirrel toy, and it looks like Tallulah is laughing about it?


That's how I was about cutting my own grass.

Also, puppy Edsel.


Anyway, we finally got to personal grooming. "So what do you spend a month on it? I'm ready," said Kaye. So I listed the stuff I do, amortized. The Botox, the Juviderm, the pedicures, the manicures, the waxes, the highlights, the base color, the Curly Girl special shampoo/conditioner/gel. The impulse buys of makeup.

"Now, this is me living cheaply, because I'm single now, so I don't go to the department stores at all anymore," I smugged, not noticing that Kaye had gotten sort of wan. I mean, 20 minutes earlier I'd been discussing Tallulah's illness, and how it had cost me, and she'd been like, "Wait. Wait wait wait. Do you not have any sort of SAVINGS?"


Poor Kaye. Once the personal grooming portion of our day was over, I said, "Was that as bad as you thought?"

"It was actually worse. It was worse than I thought." Whatever with Kaye. It costs a lot of money to look this cheap.

Anyway, then we got down to brass tacks, which it turns out I can't afford. I had to agree to give stuff up, in order to have, you know, savings. Savings. Pfft. So we discussed, and Kaye made me a list. She called it: No Need-y, No Buy-y. This is why I'm the word person and she's the numbers person.


I agreed to no more Juviderm right away. It doesn't make that big of a difference. And no more calling Jimmy John's from my desk at work and meeting them here, which is my little challenge several days a week. Can I beat Jimmy John's? I am BANNED from Target for six months, because I go there for a Glue Stik and come home with 47 throw rugs and lamps and eye shadows. Oh, and no new makeup till I run completely out.

No pedicures. I am allowed to purchase ONE SAD NAIL COLOR to do my nails myself. "Well, I also need a top coat," I told Stern Taskmaster Kaye. Down-to-earth women never get me.

Anyway, we're gonna meet again in a month and see how it's going and have I saved any money. I already know I'm capable of doing this, because I did it before. Of course, then I was married, and not trying to reel in any men. This is why I feel strongly about keeping my Botox. But maybe I'll get so excited about having savings that I'll give that up and go around looking rich but frowny, much like Queen Elizabeth. She's married, isn't she?

Further report$ as development$ warrant. See what I did, there?

See you in savings,


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

A parade of Junes. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Is it payday? It just occurred to me that maybe it is. That would be a beautiful thing. I think last time I checked I had 72 dollars.

Speaking of which, Friend in Real Life and I Think Faithful Reader Kaye is coming over this weekend to help me make a budget! I know! "You'll have to not buy stuff," she said, and OTHER THAN BOTOX, what do you ever hear me buying? "Oh, I couldn't resist this cute outfit!" Do I ever say that? Do I ever say "outfit"? Other than when I get my "Can I speak to the manager" hair and say, "This is some outfit you've got here." Usually with my hands on my hips.

Which I just kind of did with the vet, but not really. I want to get Edsel in for his shots, which were due April 30 and in case you hadn't noticed, my job is all differented up, which means busy all the time, and also the CATS were SIMILARLY due for THEIR goddamn shots, so I took them in at the end of the month and figured I'd get Edsel in at the next pay period.

dis all sownd grate, mom

Anyway, here's what they said at the vet. The office is closed daily from 12 till 3. NOON TILL THREE. So you can't do a lunchtime appointment. And while they're open till 6, they take their last appointment at 5. Hey, convenience.

They're booked Saturday.


So I can get in next Saturday. "I know you said you like Dr. Clark…" the girl who answered the phone and was probably all Oh dear god, it's June said to me.

"Peters. I said Peters." I do also like Dr. Clark, but at this point I was just irked.

"Oh, well, she's got openings all day."

That's what he said.

"When would you like to come in?"

"How about noon?" I asked, because I love the nightlife, I've got to boogie, and by "boogie" I mean watch season five of Parenthood till 2 a.m.

"We close at noon."

JESUS CHRIST. This is some operation you've got here.

Dear businesses such as the vet: If you're going to charge me almost $500 to euthanize and cremate my dog, who got cancer because of flea meds you sold me and also vaccinations which were all your fault, could you at least HAVE REASONABLE HOURS so I can give you all my cash and you can kill the next pet at my convenience?

Was everyone happier when we just let our kids out the front door to play in the street till dusk and put our puppies in laundry baskets to sleep and they died of old age or of being hit by cars and they didn't GO to the vet, and we never once took either species on playdates?

We're going to look back on this era as the most nervous, controlled, overscheduled era ever. "We're planning your fun now! We have sex penciled in for 10!" I wonder if my vets office closes for three hours because they all stampede home to have sex. Not with each other, although now I'm gettin' a visual. I do love the vets there. I'm sure it's not their faults the hours suck.

I have to go. It's 8 freaking 16 already and I haven't showered. I got my roots done last night so at least I don't have to wash my hair. Iris is in the kitchen with Dinah, coughing up a hairball. Maybe it's the hairball that's named Dinah. Eds and Lily have started their morning Needy minutes. And my triceps kind of hurt, which is exciting because new gym.

came ober to say NOT NEEEDEEE.

Before I go, I have a pressing question. Ned told me once that he saw a, like, parade of old Mustangs, which for him is the best thing he could see in a parade, ever. He was just minding his own business and out of nowhere each year of Mustang was coming down the street in chronological order. I may be making that part up, the chronological order part.

The point is, I started thinking about what my perfect parade would be, and I guess it'd be baby cats of any kind. Like, baby leopards, baby tigers, baby housecats. Oh my god. Best parade possible.


I hate everything · June's stupid life · Other people's pets

Have You Bean Assessed?

Today is a very assess-y day. We have our health assessments at work, and as I type you, I have to fast, which is fine because usually at this time I haven't eaten yet, but I have to




till I get my bloodwork done, and this just isn't natural. You know, I remember when coffee used to make me sort of high, and now I just chase it to feel normal, man. To get through the day without feeling sick. Like, I'm kind of joking but not really. The point is, I'm typing to you right now with a stupid-ass bottle of stupid water, and this day is stupid.

My personal blood test and so on is at 8:45, and who is going to STAMPEDE to the Krups machine right after, do you think? Which is good, because right after THAT is my annual review, in which I find out if I suck. And I'm going to be all, Supervisor, Ima let you finish, but I gotta get more coffee, dawg, hang the fuck on.

So that should be revealing. And if that weren't enough, did I tell you I joined a gym? I did. Do you recall, if you're a longtime reader, when Marvin used to walk over to the gym in this neighborhood at, like, 9 o'clock at night and I used to complain about it? I joined that gym. And also, Dear Kit: I mentioned your name and you get $400 a minute off your membership or something.

Anyway, tonight I meet with a trainer, and she measures me ("We're gonna need more tape") and takes me through the machines and so on. I was tired of doing Tracy Anderson, whom I have been doing for more than four years. I bought different I want to call them tapes of hers. Because apparently it's 1989. DVDs. I bought other DVDs of hers, but in general I wanted to do more than just look at her dour expressions all day.

At this gym, they have yoga and spinning, which I will never ever go to because spinning looks like something that might could make you barf. They have swimming classes, too, like where you do exercise classes in the water. And be sure to ask me where, if you're local. I'm dying to have a big audience as I galumph on a treadmill. Oh, there's June. No, that one. Galumphing. With the hair.

Oh my god, why is there no coffee?

The Other People's Pets Section

I just looked at my desktop, because I have to stare blankly at things now that there's no caffeine in my body, and I realized I have all kinds of photos of OPP on my desk, which I will share with you now.


When I went to that brewery this weekend for that birthday party, this doggie doo was there, and she was such a sweetheart. She was still puppy-ish. Her owner said she's been coming there since she was teensy and had to sit on his lap. He said he's taken her to other local breweries but she likes the beer at this place better.

[Here is where the Humorless Animal People are twisting their shorts. BEER IS POIIIIIIIISON FOR DOGS, JUNE!] [Oh my god he was kidding.]

Anyway, she was sweet as pie, and waggled her tail at just everyone, and this place is always inexplicably filled with the small children of hipsters who want to raise children while drunk, and every child with bearded parents was all over this baby and she didn't mind a bit. Edsel would've had a mini-stroke and required a triage nurse.

The owner guy did her DNA: she is an American Staffordshire terrier and a Dalmation. Dying. 101 Pit Mations. That makes no sense. Hey, is there any coffee?


At the OTHER party I was at, I heard someone say, "There's a cat outsi–" and that's all it took for me to stampede out the side door. Sure enough, there was a friendly little buff kitty saying meow meow meow meow, as, you know, kitties do. Hey, you know what would be great right now? Is a spot of coffee. Anyway, she was one of those super-friendly cats, and her tag read Miss BrowBrow. Dying. What would make a person say, "Hey, I know. We could call her Miss BrowBrow"? Maybe that person hadn't had any coffee.

Do you think it's possible I have an addiction? My hair is kind of the same color as Miss BrowBrow's.

IMG_9419 IMG_9416

Also, yesterday after work I was driving home, and who did I see playing with one of her people but Ava? Naturally I pulled over like a crazy person and got out my car, squealing. She waggled her tail at me, Ava did, and the little girl who owns her was all, "Well, hi!!" She told me about how her grandparents' dog (who knew?) has been acting like a puppy since they got Ava, and how much fun Ava's been, and how she's "totally ADD."

Ava was a different dog. She was so, you know, not scared. And she seemed bigger. The little girl, whose name I swear I've never learned, said, "Maybe sometimes my grandma and my mom and I can come down and bring Ava." Oh, I hope they do. Look at her sweet face. I can't even stand it.

And of course, I had that pit bull puppy on my mind last night, the one who's far away that I assumed would be adopted at the adoption fair. It finally dawned on me who she looks like: Elvis's mother.

IMG_9422 IMG_9099

You know I'm right. It's that beleaguered thing. puppee sik of wurld.

Hey, you know what'd be great right now? Is some coffee.



Family · Friends · June's stupid life · My pets

Mathletic showdown: June and her mom chisanbop


It's official: I'm an old lady. And not just cause I have to go down my steps sideways like a crab. I just got home for lunch and I saw my roses bloomed and you'd think Morris Chestnut was in my backyard holding bacon scallion cream cheese while stacking four everything bagels on his member, so excited was I.

Is it sad that the cream cheese sounds just as exciting as naked Morris Chestnut?

Anyway, m'roses. Yay!


I also noted that those berries are here, the ones Tallulah used to roll in and turn blue because of, and that made me sad. Roses, yay. No Talu in the berries, nay.

This weekend was ridiculous. I FINISHED my statistics textbook, which means my house is a wreck and I'm exhausted, and I also managed to get to not one but two birthday parties, because apparently every bitch I know was born in May.

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[See Party, Life of the.]

At one such party, the hostess made a signature cocktail, and thank god she lives in my neighborhood, because who literally made that cocktail her signature? Like, if I sign something in blood right now, it'd mostly consist of that cocktail. The drink was called La Cougar, the drink of my people, and I am sorry to tell you I found myself screeching, at the end of the night, "I TASTE DELICIOUS!"

God help us. Everyone.

But listen. Pear vodka. Vanilla vodka. Lemonade. LA COUGAR IN THE HAWSE!

The good news is, when I got home all loaded with cougars, I ordered a pizza, then forgot I ordered a pizza, and when that doorbell rang 40 minutes later I turned into The Scream. I was all, WHO IS RINGING MY DOORBELL AT TWELVE-THIRTY?


What a lovely surprise, then, to drunkenly open the door and to find my mystery date was a pizza! I'd done a great job: Thin crust, light cheese, spinach, tomato, onion. The only disappointment was the tomato was canned. And I was soused.

But none of this is why I gathered you here today. On my drive home for lunch, my mother called to ask if I was gonna tell you all about our math fight, which is the saddest concept, ever. It'd be like Lily and Edsel having a battle of wits.


As you know, yesterday was Mother's Day, and last week sometime I was similarly on the phone with my mother and I said to her, "Crap. I just drove to that little boutique I like and they're already closed." Dear local businesses: Don't close at 6:00. Stop it. "Your card's gonna have to come from Target now, and I hope you're happy."

I don't know why I made it her fault, but I did. Had she married Maurice Templesman or something, I wouldn't need a job and then I could go to little boutiques and send her cards any time of day, all willy-nilly. I like how I just pulled Maurice Templesman out of my ass, which is something Jackie Kennedy said on the regular.

I asked mom if she wanted to talk to me on the phone while I selected cards, and she could pick it right there over the phone, but she demurred, probably because she was sick to death of my Maurice Templesman anal jokes. So to circumvent the basic-ness of my card choices, I went with the above option, thinking I was hye-larious, right up there with the caliber of "I taste delicious."

On Saturday, my mother phoned. "Hullllloooo," she said. She didn't really. But she did say, "Honey, I got your card. It's cute. But this isn't the 51st Mother's Day I've had. It's the 50th."


Okay. My mother KNOWS she can't do math. But she also thinks I am touched in the head. So when I said to her, no, I'm 50, but it's your 51st Mother's Day, she did the thing she does, and Aunt Kathy, back a sister up. She got Smug Voice. Mom did. Which is what she does.

"No, honey. My first Mother's Day was in 1966. This is 2016. That was 50 years ago," mom smugged.

"Okay, but, see, you have to count 1966 as one. It was the first year," I tried to tell her.

"Don't try to do math," mom smugged further, and where does she think I got my skillz, exactly? My father was in school to be a nuclear physicist.

"Pam, I need you to take a pen." I was trying not to yell at her. It was Mother's Day eve, after all. "I need you to write a scratch line starting with 1966, and make one for each year till this year."

Aunt Kathy, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR HER TONE when I tell you she said, "I'm not doing that. I know I'm right."

SHE WASN'T RIGHT. SHE WASN'T RIGHT, and this is why I'm in therapy today. We argued like this for maybe 20 minutes. "You have some kind of DISORDER," I told her, laughing and yelling at the same time. "You are unable to admit when you're wrong!"

"I can admit I'm wrong," said my mother. "It just so rarely happens."

Finally I insisted she get my beleaguered stepfather on the phone. 

"Hello, June," said my stepfather, sounding exhausted. I told him he wasn't allowed to sound that way at the beginning of our conversation. I told him the argument, although I suspect my mother had already given him the deets, and he said, "You know your mother is always right about things."




Finally, I got HIM to admit that my counting was correct, and that it WAS her 51st Mother's Damn Day, and he TOLD her that, and she got back on the phone.

"Oh. Well, I get it, now. …You explained it wrong, honey."

And that is when I told her to mail the card back. "I NO LONGER WISH YOU A HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY," I said. "I'm going to get a refund at Target."

So that was my holiday. Also, that pit bull rescue place called, and remember how the pitty puppy went to that adoption event more than three hours away each way, and I was all, Let someone there adopt her?

No one did.

Oh, my heart.

hoooo care?

In Tallulah's will, she left Iris the gift of hooo care.



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

June Drew

For some reason, mostly "organized," I have two little squares on my desktop, and hey, computer-savvy. One reads "iPhoto" and one reads "Pictures," which is not at all confusing.

Actually, it usually isn't. I know that if I plug in my phone, new pictures will upload to "Pictures," and I pretty much ignore "iPhotos," and I'm pretty sure at this point you're at the edge of your seat. TELL US MORE JUNE CANNOT GET ENOUGH TITO HAND ME THE POPCORN.

Today due to Topamax, I opened iPhoto and found all sorts of pictures that made me sad.

Examplero Uno. Now that I survived Cinco de Mayo, I speak Spanish. We had a big party at work and my throat still hurts from laughing. We had stupid amounts of fun. Still. Oh my god, I miss that dog. And her houndy smell.

Oh my god, kill me now.

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Okay. So good. I'm glad I did that to myself. Go, June!

I found a wallet yesterday. I was pulling out of my driveway, and looking down the road toward where my puppy lives, thinking about how odd that whole situation was, and who does that happen to, and I was seriously forming the thought, "It's like I manifest odd situations," when I saw a wallet in my front yard. Seriously.

It was pouring the rain, as my grandmother would have said, but I got out and got that soaking thing. All the money was gone, and it was obvious it'd been pilfered, but the credit cards were still there and now I own a lovely bag.


I saw the address on the woman's license, and she lived not far. She wasn't home, though, so I called the nonemergency police while I drove to work, thinking maybe they'd know how to find her sooner than I could, so she could cancel her stuff in case they, I don't know, wrote down her SS number or something. They said they'd come to my work and get the wallet.

So then, still driving to work, I told my phone to CALL work, and the receptionist answered. She's been working with me for five years. You can imagine.

"Linda? June Gardens. How you doin'? Hey, the police are on their way, and they're looking for me."

Linda is this positively spectacular-looking woman who's probably a decade older than me and 14 sizes smaller. She can dance like nobody's business, too. You should see her at the company Xmas parties. We all want to be Linda. God wants to be Linda. God's up there, like, Yeah, I look good. But do I look LINDA good?

"The police are what, now, honey? Are you getting arrested?"

I kind of feel like if the answer had been yes, no one at work would be that shocked. She stole another puppy. That hair is a crime. That sort of thing.

So I told her the whole wallet tale, like she had nothing else to do.

"You know what I think. I think this is the best excuse for being late anyone's ever come up with," she said. Why is everyone always over me?

The point is–and let's face it, there's never really a point–Greensboro may have a hard-hitting police force, but old Sleuthy June, here, got to work and got on Facebook, looked up the woman's name, found her, friended her and messaged her, all in 15 minutes. We scheduled a time for me to get her wallet back, and the police hadn't even BEEN there yet.

Who were Nancy Drew's friends, again? There was the fatty and the lesbian. Who here signs up to be my lesbian friend? Who's gonna be the fattie? I already called it–Marty gets to be my lezbie friend.

Tonight, I celebrate my love for me, and I need to get over that line. I also have a party to attend, and then another tomorrow, because apparently in May it's everyone's goddamn birthday and what about my needs? You know I'm an intro–okay, i can't even finish that sentence.

I did go to the Mystery Science Theater movie last night and I laughed like a hysterical person from beginning to end. In case you didn't know this, back in the, oh, maybe late '80s on into the '90s, there was this show on maybe Sci Fi? The premise was that this guy was shot into space by his bosses, as you do, and because he was lonely, he made robot friends. His bosses sent him bad movies to punish him, and he and his robots watched them and said fucking hilarious things during said movies.

That's it. That was the whole show. You watched a bad movie, and you listened to a man and two robots make fun of said bad movie.

The theme song included the line: If you're wondering how he eats and breathes and other science facts, just repeat to yourself It's just a show; I should really just relax. That's how I often feel when you guys get caught up in some detail of mine that doesn't matter.


It's just a show. You should really just relax.




Film · Food and Drink · I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life

Suns are usually hilarious

This morning, as opposed to this anything else seeing as it's 8 a.m., I went to my computer room, fmr., and who needs to get over the "fmr." thing, do you think? Anyway, I went in there to clean the cat boxes, as I am wont to do. There was litter just strewn everywhere, like the cats had had some kind of bash and everyone used their bathroom, which annoys. And yes, I know about those little catching rugs you can get. Whatever.

Anyway, I got the broom and dustpan y'all gave me when I moved in here, and I sweep sweep sweeped–shut up–that room. I threw away the litter I swept and came back in and sweepded some more. Then? I took a shower, got my robe on, and noticed I'd left the light on in there. Went in to turn it off?

Stepped in cat litter.


I brushed my foot off over the trash can, went back to the bathroom and washed feet all over again. Came back out, and?

Stepped in a hairball on the dining room floor.


So I already hate this day, and now I have to fit in taking three animals to the pound before work. Speaking of which,


I know. This reaction never happens. "You could just NOT say the word 'walk,'" Ned once told me, with the sense of humor of a thousand suns. "But I ENJOY seeing him get delighted about the same damn thing every single day." Like men aren't that way re boobs.

Suns are usually hilarious.

I've been working on that enormous statistics textbook since April 20, Hitler's birthday, and this week I emailed the managing editor to tell her everything I've completed so far, and did she have any ideas for what else I could check. They didn't rewrite any of it, they just added new stuff to the beginning and end of each chapter, and added all new screen shots. I'm sure you're riveted. Anyway, that's why the index and table of contents got 100% screwy, and that's why I'm checking it every which-way just to be certain nothing more is screwed up.

"Oh you could do this and this," she wrote, not literally. "But there's no rush on this book."

See. You needn't tell me that, because then I turn into Prissy.


So last night I got home intending to spend at least ONE hour on it, and instead I was pretty much Iris all night. I tore a baby bird apart with m'incisors.

Today is May You Have a Sink or whatever, and we have a celebratory May 5 work thing, and have I mentioned my work is all differented up? Now I have to go to meetings all the time, and I have a new boss again, and I told the old one he should write an I Supervised June guest post, just like I asked the LAST last boss to do–my boss, fmr.–and no one ever will. You can imagine the material they have at the ready.

I should ask the new boss to write an Ima Supervise June Now post. That's the way to make a boss not at all nervous. Let them know you need to be written about.

I gotta go, but before I do, I should mention, because you and your tenterhooks, that since I started taking Topamax a week ago, I have had zero migraines, after having 18 of them in April. I've had HINT of a migraine, GHOST of a migraine, just LOOK at a bottle of prepared salad dressing and you'll get one-grains, but no real migraines.


Yesterday, the lunch truck came, and I got a chicken empanada, because chicken is heart-healthy, and a Coke. I got back to my desk, and I was all, This Coke is broken. Oh my GOD with this Coke. Whattup with the Coke? I took, like, six sad sips before I remembered.


It rooooooons the taste of carbonated beverages, a thing I'd remembered before, as I made sure to drink all my LaCroix water, which I'm normally obsessed with, before I took my first pill. But then a week later, there I am, ordering a Coke. You know why I forgot?


Makes you stupid.

Oh my god, anyway. After my work event, if I can make it, there's a whole Mystery Science Theater thing at the movies tonight that I'm dying to go to. Do any of you, or did any of you, love love love MST 3000? I never would have watched it if an old boyfriend hadn't and I got obsessed with it.

I'll try not to order a Coke.



Friends · Fuck natural · June's stupid life · Money


I'm home for lunch. I didn't blop at you this morning because I was up till freaking one in the morning. A, I wasn't tired and 2, I was doing statistics proofreading. So my point is I didn't bound out of bed this morning like a fireman, as I usually do. Go, mornings!

IMG_9195 IMG_9197
You want to be me right now. So bad, you do. Let's get to my freelancing and my money sitch in a moment. But first, yesterday was one of the Alex's birthdays. She's 23. We had lunch, as she is finally able to eat solid foods now.


Look at me, frowning at the idea of youth.

Look at youth, frowning at me.

Twenty-three. I don't even remember BEING 23. My diary had to be written on cave walls, so it's hard to go back to refresh my memory. I do remember school dances, though.


"Our lives are ahead of us! When we go to your funeral, we STILL won't be as old as you are now!"


I gotta start hanging around people my own age. Except that would require me to spend time at the old folks' home. Or be an extra in a Dannon Yogurt commercial. See, that's only funny IF YOU'RE OLD.


Oh! And before we discuss my freelance sitch, one other thing I wanted to mention is just now, when I got home for lunch, I strolled on down to Ava's new house o' Jews and checked on her. The brother in the family answered the door. "Oh, she's great! Come on in!" he said. He walked me to the den, where Ava was sitting on the couch. She'd been watching TV with him, all snuggled on a blanket. She already looks a little bigger. I told her Edsel said snap.

So that's good.

But now let's talk money.

First of all, I have enough. I didn't used to. When Marvin left, and I was laid off, and I had a house payment and had to COBRA my insurance, and so on, oh, things were rough. Bank of Mom.

Thanks, Mom.

But I've been working for five years at that job, and have health insurance thank god, and I refinanced my house. Plus, that year abroad really helped me financially. By the end of last year, I was in zero debt other than my house payment.

Then Tallulah got sick, so I'm back in a little bit of debt, hence that I'm fucking killing my own self doing this statistics book right now. That'll pretty much get me back to zero, which, yay!

But, like, how do I do better? My credit rating is good, I have a Four Oh Wonk, my car is paid for and I will once again have no credit card debt. But I want to fix my deck, and get a second bathroom, stuff like that. How the heck do I get cash to do that? I'm sure there are ways I could do better. I can't technically work more. I write for Purple Clover, I do freelance statistics stuff, I freelance for another company in LA that I used to work for, and then there's my pesky regular job. So.

If one person says the words Dave or Ramsey to me, I will Ramsey something right up your Dave. I read his book, got to, "Step One, just go get a thousand dollars," got overwhelmed and never did it. I mean, I must have picked up that book five times and read that and put it back down.

Also, nixing my Botox is not an option. It isn't. It's $275 every four months and IT WORKS.

So other than that, what else can I do to do better with money and save more so I can do the big stuff like sit on a big hard wooden deck?

Oh, speaking of me making everything dirty, at that youth lunch yesterday, we talked about how many people we've kissed. One person had made a list while she was on a 12-hour car ride. So I made a list too, as best I could, and it had things on it like, "Kathy D's boyfriend" and "Guy at that burnout party" and I came up with 53 people.

I have kissed four people with Ned's real name, and four people named John, which is creepy cause my father's name is John. But, I mean, common name, so I needn't Freud all over myself. If my dad's name were Xeralpholopia and I kissed four people named Xeralpholopia, then we'd have an issue to contend with. Mostly that there were people in the world saying, "We should totally name the baby Xeralpholopia."

Also, it was 1984, but I still feel bad about kissing Kathy's boyfriend. She was away at college. She'd been my friend, and there I was, all kissing up on her boyfriend in his car after a football game. I suck. I mean, not literally. I only kissed that guy. What the hell was his name? My name is mud. Because who does that?

I have kissed precisely one person since Ned and I broke up last September, and do you know what I was not ready for? Oh my god. I sat through that whole kiss going, This is weird. This isn't Ned. Here I am, kissing a non-Ned person. I wish this were over because, hey, not Ned. So.


Maybe I could raise money via a kissing booth.

So what are some tips? Some money-saving tips? Because my current deck is sagging. My deck is limp. And my deck isn't big enough. I want to get a bunch of people on my deck. Okay I'll stop.



Aging ungracefully · June's stupid life · Other people's pets

Ben Laden

Yesterday was my five-year anniversary at work. It was just exactly the same as five years ago in that it was May 2nd and it was a Monday. Also, Osama bin Laden is still dead. He'd been killed the night before my first day. One of you told me in the comments and I barely registered it because nervous.


Here I am on my first day, and why didn't anyone tell me that necklace and sweater were too much together? I still have that sweater. I should totally wear it today in celebration. Today, I celebrate my love for me. For a change. We don't have to dress up for work anymore, which is nice. Why was my hair like that? God.

So many people who are there now weren't there way back then. None of the Alexes were. But my boss was, fmr., and Griff of course. Oh, I forgot to tell you a story. Last week when I got back from lunch one day, there was a bag of Goldfish on my desk. Not real ones, but Princess Goldfish crackers, which did you even know they CAME in princess form? I didn't, either.


"Hunh. I wonder who left these here," I thought, while also thinking who names a website "million moments." Naturally I tore them right open and commenced chawing, because diet.

"What're you eating?" asked Griff, moments later.

"Someone left pink goldfish on my desk," I told him, not remotely fearing that maybe Osama bin Laden left them there or something and that they were teaming with poison. "Do they have crowns?" he asked, looking at the package.

"They don't! I was kind of hoping they would."

It was a really busy week and I never took time to sleuth, figuring someone would eventually say, hey, did you get those princess crackers or "I am Osama bin Laden! Death to June!" or something. Do you think he talked like that all the time? Or was he ever just all, Do we have any mustard?

On Friday, a bunch of people were around my desk, and why? Why do people bug me? Do I seem sociable? Because I don't see it.

"Hey, what're those?"

"Oh, some mysterious person left me princess Goldfish," I said. "Probably The Poet, but I never found out."

"I got those for you," said Griff.


"You did?" everyone asked.

"Yeah." He took more crackers, a thing he'd been doing all week without saying a word.

The thing is, when you're cantankerous, a small gesture like seeing pink goldfish crackers and getting them for your pink coworker seems astonishingly kind. That is the advantage of being a cranker-britches.

"You know those aren't real fish, right, Griff?" someone asked. He does love him some fish, as we all know.


Yesterday was the first day of Fitness by the Fountain, which I like to call Fitness Whole Pizza in My Mouth, and I was excited to go as it was belly dancing last night, but BRF Alex said, "It's supposed to storm," and what 27-year-old or however the fuck old she is knows what the weather's gonna be. Who is she, my grandmother? Sure enough, hail, hail, the gang was all here, so Edsel the Puppy Killer and I didn't get to go for our walk, and I didn't get to stroll down and check on Ava or anything. I mean, it was lightning-ning and thundering and hailing and it was absurd.

Cool weather, though. I love love love love spring here, with the blossoms and the storms and the katydids and next will be the lightning bugs. Oh! Love. People have 72 orgasms over the autumn here, which I will grant you is loverly, and yes I just said loverly like one of those assholes who enjoys a musical (hi, Enormous Member Steve), but the spring is where it's at, for me.


Five years later. Man, do I miss those park-your-horse-here porch lights.

Death to June,


June doesn't know any ugly people · June's stupid life · My pets · Other people's pets

No more puppies, ever

Before I tell you about Edsel attacking the puppy, you gotta promise me you won't hate Edsel. I did. For, like, an hour. I don't know if I've ever been so angry at a dog. But she's fine, and I really thought about it from his perspective, and now I love that damn dog more than ever. So.


Now this picture makes me nervous as shit.

I did what you were supposed to do, which was introduce the dogs gradually, although I didn't do it on "neutral territory," because part of Edsel's Carolina Dog-ness is that he's a completely different person outside these doors. In here, he's sweet and welcoming and ties on his hostess apron and whips up a snack. Outside, he puts his ears back and curls his leash around me to get away from hands. Carolina Dogs are notoriously shy outside, so I figured meeting her "outside" would make him way nervouser.

And the thing was, I wasn't worried. He was so sweet to the cats, he loved Tallulah, he'd welcomed Violet and friends' dogs and Stanley and I was all, oh please. But still, I carried Ava in and took her straight into the back bedroom, shut the door. Let Edsel in only after he wasn't obsessively sniffing the door anymore. Limited exchanges to 15 minutes at a time all night and yesterday and otherwise kept him on one side of the gate and her on the other. That tail bite up there was the only time Ava initiated any play, really, and it seemed fine.

Then yesterday morning I was on the floor with both of them and from seemingly nowhere Eds attacked. Full-on attacked. It was awful. I had to grab him by the scruff of his neck and pull him off her. I was furious with him. This wasn't a big dog correcting a puppy. It was an attack.

He slunk from the room, and I was glad. Oh my god, I hated that dog right then. I held poor Ava, who was horrified, but unhurt. I held her for a long time. I knew I shouldn't be crying and upset, that I had to act like the calm, assertive pack leader. Fucking Caesar. I don't even know what precipitated it! There was no food. There was a toy nearby, but they hadn't both gone to it or anything. I shouldn't have had a toy nearby, though. It's hard when you have a puppy and a dog and yourself. But that's also my own fault. I'm the one who opted for this hard scenario.

I held her for a long, long time, trying to act calm and assertive. I knew what would have to happen is that I'd have to keep them separate for a long time, months, maybe. Get a trainer in here. Ava does not like to be alone–when I put her in a crate just to shower she had a fit. I put her in the bedroom with the door closed just so I could dress and she had another fit. I worked on my statistics book with her on my lap, because she cried otherwise. And how was I going to walk Edsel for 40 minutes every day? I'd been planning to crate her or walk both of them, and now that was out.

I felt so sad and overwhelmed. I felt acutely alone, is what I felt. You know, I really don't mind living alone, and I don't even mind not having a man person. I mean, okay, sure, IT WOULD BE NICE, but this hasn't been that bad. Except for times like this. Like, if someone were just here to talk me down, to say, "Oh my god, we can do this. It'll be fine; I'll come home from work and be with the puppy while you walk Edsel." That sort of thing. But instead it was just me and my catastrophic thoughts.

I thought about Edsel, too, yesterday, and all he's been through. He loved the crap out of Ned; both dogs did. So, for six weeks in October and November, I was just gone, then I come back and drag them away from Ned's house. We come back here in mid-November, then Tallulah gets sick. In retrospect, I can recall signs that she was sick as far back as Thanksgiving. I wonder if Edsel could tell then? He knew; he was forever sniffing her back there where her tumor was. And then his Tallulah was gone. And what do I do? Bring in not one but two puppies a short while later.


I put on my shoes and went outside, teary-eyed. The only times I'd been outside in 24 hours were to let the puppy out, which by the way she'd been EXCELLENT at. She totally already knew that's what you did when you went outside! Anyway, I held her like a baby and just walked down my street. I was trying to just clear my head, not feel so overwhelmed, not fucking cry, be the goddamn pack fucking leader.

That's when I passed the family down the street, the people who live next to Paul, although as they say, Paul Is Dead. You knew my old neighbor-on-the-glider, Paul, finally died, right? He made it to a hundred. But every time I walk the dogs past his house I miss him.

Dog. Goddammit.

Anyway, next to his house is this family I know I've mentioned once or twice. He's a retired Jewish doctor, she still works at the fancy rehab, for when you're a rich drunk person. I mention they're Jewish because I identify with the Jewish people–I'm not Jewish but having been married to a Jew, I've had a little in me.

She has a hip short gray 'do. I like them a lot. They have two grandkids who are around often, and I know I've told you about them. Their grandson was much younger when Talu and I walked past one day when she was in one of her rolling-in-the-berries-in-my-yard looks.

"I wish I had a blue-and-yellow-dog," he told me.

"Well, she'd not usually bl–" I started to tell him.

"What kind of dog is she?" I may not have mentioned to you back then that he is a very attractive child, which is important because being attractive always is. He and his sister are of mixed race, and they have good hair. I know I seem racist with the whole she's Jewish/he's mixed descriptions, but I wanted you to get their vibe. Hip, cool, ethnic, good-hair vibe.

"She's a pit bull/beagle," I said to the kid, as he petted Lu's head, which I miss very much as I write this. "Do you have a dog?" I never know what to say to people under the drinking age.

"Yeah," he said. "What kind?" I asked. "Oh, she's a pet bull and a beagle."

And right then I knew. That kid was full of shit.

I told you that story like six years ago, and there that family was yesterday, in their yard: the grandma with the hep 'do, her very pretty daughter in nurse's scrubs, and the nurse's two kids with good hair. "Are you…walking with a puppy?" the nurse mom asked.

"I am," I said, and naturally the kids, who must be older than six, see above reference, asked to pet her. Actually I'd put them both at not adolescent yet, but maybe like 9 and 11. Look at me, homing in on kids' ages.

"Can I hold her?" the little girl asked. Her hair was phenomenal, and Ava was already chewing it. So I said okay. The next thing I knew, Ava was chasing those kids all over the yard, and the mom and I were sitting in the grass, watching. I told the mom the blue-and-yellow dog story. She laughed.

"We had to leave our dog behind," she said. "I'm…separated. I'm getting divorced." She looked uncomfortable. "I just moved back in with my parents. Our dog was really my ex-husband's, and they miss having a dog."

"Oh, what kind?"

"Oh, some kind of a pit/beagle mix, maybe."

All those years I'd accused that kid of lying.

I told her that story, too, then, and I told her the story of Ava, and why I was on a walk and the grandma with the hip hair stood next to us, leaning on her car. "I just feel so overwhelmed," I told them, tearing up again.

"We can take that puppy," said the grandmother.

Everyone stopped.

"We can?" asked the daughter?

"WE CAN?" screeched the kids. "Honey, shh," said the mom.

"Well, of course we can. Someone's always here, and look at her."

"That means vet bills, and taking her out 400 times a day, and walking her…" the mom began. "I know it does," said the grandmother. "How many dogs have we had? Let me go talk to your father." She went indoors. The grandfather came out. "My father is the voice of reason," the nurse mom said to me.

The father came out with his hands on his hips. He saw Ava prancing in the yard after the kids. It was the most I'd seen her play in 24 hours. He saw his daughter's face and he looked at me. "How much do you want for that dog?" he asked me.

"Oh my god, nothing!' I said. "I want you all to keep me updated on her every time I walk past here." And with that, the entire family and I created a parade as we headed to my house to get Ava's dish and leash that's 10394924 times too big for her, her toys and her bed and her pee pads and her food.

The little girl with the fabulous hair put her hand on her chest. "My heart is literally beating so hard I can feel it. I didn't know I was going to feel this happy today," she told me.

And that is when I voluntarily hugged a child. "I didn't know I was going to, either," I said.

When I got to my house, the mom held Ava outside while we went in and got the stuff. "I like your house very much. I enjoy the way you have it organized," the boy told me, and right then I loved him. I wonder when his dad will feel ready to date?

We all walked back together and got Ava set up, and her little puppy eyes were gleaming, she was so happy and playful. I knew I'd done the right thing. They all stood on the porch waving at me. It made me think of one of my tarot cards.

"This was like God or something! This was meant to be!" the mom cried at me as I walked away in the sunset.

I think it really was.


When I got home, I had a talk with Edsel. I apologized, and I promised, NO MORE PUPPIES.

Then I called my friend Marty Martin and told him the whole story. "You're like a puppy halfway house," he said.

"You know, all this time, I kept wanting puppies, but what I really want is …Tallulah," I said, and I started to cry. "There's just been so much upheaval lately."

"You know how when you step in shallow water and the ground is muddy, and it's all murky on the bottom? You have a choice right then. You can keep walking and muddy the waters further, or you can stand still and wait for the water to clear. Right now might be a stand still time," he said.

"God, you're like a fortune cookie or something," I said, blowing my nose.

But he's right. I feel worn out and hung over, yet happy for Ava. But now I just want to stand still. And miss my pet bull and beagle.