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.


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.

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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

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.




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.


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.

STELLAAAA! Oh, calm down.

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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?

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,


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…

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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,