Friends · June's stupid life

Women friends. There’s a topic.

There's a woman at work, one of the Alexes who's actually named Alex and not some hapless coworker I've roped into the name because I'm hilarious. This Alex is making a gift basket for someone she knows who's had some rotten stuff to face in this life, even rotten-er luck than having Lottie for a puppy.

Alex asked a bunch of us if we'd contribute to the basket and I said sure. So last night I went to the store to get her a pretty flowered journal and a nice pen. In my mind I was going to spend $20 and Dear Kaye, I AM SORRY. We didn't discuss gifts, really.

The point is, I found out that they really stick it to you with pricing pretty pens. I got her a nice not-too-costly journal, though. It's in the car so I won't forget it, or I'd show it to you.

Anyway. THE REASON I'M TELLING YOU THIS is I saw one of those adult coloring books, and by "adult" I don't mean it's all "Paint the Vagina!" I just mean allegedly they're for adults. I just did a thing at work where I researched if coloring for adults was really good for you or not. Turns out, it really is supposed to be relaxing.

Here's my thing. I don't relax. I don't. Not anymore. I used to. I used to be a copyeditor all day who had two adult dogs and someone to split the bills with. Now I'm single with THE DEVIL HERSELF as a dog, and my job is meet meet meetings and emergencies and OH MY GOD THIS IS DUE NOW YOU DIDN'T KNOW? all day long. And on into the evening. It's totally different from what I did for 19 years.

And, I mean, then I come home, and when I'm not getting work emails at 11:19 p.m., I'm dealing with this dog. This DEMON of a puppy. Remember how calm Stanley was? What the hell with me? Lottie is awful all the time. All day long. She jumps up and TWIRLS in the air to bite at my face. When I'm here typing, she bites my back through the chair. Iris looks depressed, and poor Edsel is so beleaguered.

I know this part will pass, and perhaps I will actually like Lottie one day, but in the meantime, there is no relaxing at this house. Plus also, I have to jump up and follow her everywhere to make sure she doesn't poop on the floor. I have to bring her into my tiny bathroom with me, and she spends the whole time trying to bite the toilet paper.

I seriously have no relax time. Okay, when she's asleep. But then the work emails. So.

This is why I wanted an adult coloring book. I thought it'd be a good way to maybe have some not-hysterical time. When, I don't know.

BUT I DIDN'T BUY IT, KAYE, because budget. I got my journal and my $2,394,5060 pen and left.

I'd already been home, after work, and noted I had a package but hadn't acknowledged it because I had to feed all the pets and let Lottie in the back yard to worship a goat and so on, but when I got back from the store, I opened my package.

It was an adult coloring book. And pencils.

My birthday is coming up, and I tend to choose two kinds of friends: the first I'm drawn to, over and over, is the Charismatic Attractive. The CA is flashy in some way, usually by being spectacular-looking, sometimes by being funny as shit or whatever, but the point is, I always feel a pull toward this type. "Ooo, who's that?" I'll ask myself, then work to become that person's friend.

And that's what it always is. Work. The Charismatic Attractive ends up being flaky, always, and a bad friend often. This is the type of woman who'll call your ex after you break up. Or say she'll come pick you up when your car breaks down and just never show up. I hate to say this, but my friend Melanie was a Charismatic Attractive. My ex-best friend was a CA. She was supposed to be my maid of honor and throw a bachelorette party for me, and what we ended up doing was just going to a bar. And she sat at another booth.

She also, on my wedding day, came late, then said to the hairdresser doing my hair, "Oh, good! Can you do my nails?"


The other type I make friends with is the Low-Key Reliable. This is a friendship that generally starts out small. A funny exchange here, a good talk there. It takes a year to two to really catch on. This person is definitely the grownup of the two of us, and generally finds me bemusing, which may be a polite way to say it.

My friend Sandy is an LKR. BRF Alex is an LKR. My friend Marianne, who got me crackers and a shot of whiskey on my wedding day when I felt nervous and my CA maid of honor was having her nails done, is an LKR.

So is The Poet, whose photo I snapped during a (wait for it) meeting yesterday at work. Look at her, just waiting to be reliable.


The point is, LKRs always remember my birthday. CAs never do.

I try very hard to be an LKR to my friends, but I'm more a Charismatic Awkward-Looking. I flake all the time, and I hate myself for it. I'll have, like, 10 nights with no plans, and on night 11 I'll accidentally make four plans. I do that all the time, and my phone's calendar helps me nonce. I need a Hallmark date book, I really do. Do they still make those?

So I got a birthday present in JUNE from one of my reliable friends, who's the type to mail a July birthday present three weeks early, "just in case."

I tend to send something the day before, via Sweaty Emergency Amazon.

Anyway, here.


I colored this for all my LKR friends. It's my personal gift to you. Yep. You.are.welcome. I guess it's the crop from a labia farm? Unsure.

Anyway, it was fun. And Lottie tried to eat my pencils so I shot her. Now, THAT was relaxing.

The other thing I got, that I love love love, is a 5-year diary with a question for each day. Yesterday's question was, "What are the last three songs on your Recently Played list?" I had a different answer last night than I do today, because I listened to my iTunes while I colored. Today, that list is:

Age of Consent (New Order)

When the Levee Breaks (Led Zeppelin)

Hazy (Rosi Golan. It also "feat"s someone, but I hate that. Stop saying feat.)

Today's question is, What can you live without right now?

Hmmmm. Probably another puppy.




June's stupid life

A Bum Deal

If you have your Big Book of June Events out, you'll know that Ned my ex (NedEx) and I turned 50 right around a year ago. (Didn't we come up with NedEx thinking we were brilliant, and then we never used it again? Do you like how when I screw up, I rope all the rest of you into it? "We.")

Anyway, we made a deal, Ned and I did, a year ago. "You know this is the year we have to have our coloscopies," said Ned, sounding like more of an old man than he already was, being 50 and all.

"Coloscopies?" I asked at the time, and from then on that's what we called them. We promised each other we'd take care of each other during our respective coloscopies. We even considered having them at the same time, like couple's massages, but that wasn't really logical.

When Ned's birthday came along last week, I called to wish him many happy returns, even though there have been several points this year when I wished him precisely zero returns. Zero point zero. But I was being the bigger person. Literally, because Chinese food.

"Did you ever have your coloscopy?" I asked him. I'll be 51 in a couple weeks, and I still haven't scheduled mine. This is due to a combination of fear and the part where any time I take a day off work I end up working during it anyway, and I worry I'll be under and some crisis du jour will happen and it'll be all my fault cause I'm unconscious somewhere with a hose up my ass.

Sounds like my college years! Ba-dump-bump.

Anyway, it turns out he hadn't had his either, but he'd scheduled it, and next thing you know we're promising each other to still take care of one another during our coloscopies.

Yeah, I know. I know it was probably a bad idea. I know we should leave well enough alone and continue our path of not talking but running into each other stupid places like Harris Teeter because we live four minutes apart. But whatever. We'd made a deal.

So yesterday I took the day off, put on something slimming (see above ref to Chinese food) (which I really haven't had because of Kaye's stupid budget, but let me be hilarious, would you?) and headed to Ned's house. Where I used to live. It always tweaks me to be there, which I haven't been since I think winter–no, spring. I was there when that bird was in that nest, remember?

Say, June, that narrows it down. You mean that one time? When a bird was in a nest?

Anyway, it's been awhile. And I didn't go in. I knocked and Pale Ned of the Alabasters answered the door. "Are you scared?" I asked him, and I knew the answer. He nodded.

We headed to the same facility where they looked down my throat last year and determined I was crazy. Remember that? They knocked me out and stuck a tube in my throat cause I can never swallow? I still can't. They still think I'm crazy. WITCH HE NOTT.

Remember that post when I dressed up Francis? Fran wrote a guest post, and he said that. "Big hair and white coat talk to fran like fran crazy WHICH HE NOttT."

Oh my god, anyway.

Once we got to the place and started waiting, I got nervous for Ned. And while he'd spent his whole Monday dropping Mrs. Brown off at the pool, I was now similarly spending my Tuesday rushing to the bathroom at the doctor, for no reason other than I have to make everything about me, even Ned's bowels.

They called him really quickly, and he gave an involuntary, "Oh, no." He asked if there was any point in taking his book with him and they said sure, he'd be waiting awhile, so he bravely went on into the scary Rooms Beyond the Door.

I watched that annoying Kelly Lee or whatever her name is on that morning show, and she had Anderson Cooper on as her guest host, which is good because you can't go wrong with Anderson Cooper. I got involved in a People Magazine as well, because Height of Sophistication.

Then the nurse opened the Door to the Rooms and headed for me. She had Ned's book and reading glasses.

That is when the shit really hit the fan. Oh my god, I was nervous. I got to know that bathroom pretty intimately. I might even be Mrs. Bathroom, of the Check Yo' Ass Healthcare Center Bathrooms, but I don't know yet. Haven't gotten the paperwork.

Nervous, is what I was. Nervous. Eventually, I got thirsty, because I'd been pooping Chinese food, and really what you don't want is me at your medical thing. I am useless, really.

"Excuse me," I said, because I always have to say excuse me like that, whether I'm asking a store clerk or a receptionist or the person serving me the restraining order or whomever. "Excuse me…"

The receptionist at this place was probably like, What IS it, Poop Ass? Wear out our bathrooms a little more, why don't you? We've named it the June Gardens Water Closet, at this point. Yeesch.

"Are there vending machines where I can buy water?" I asked, and when did we all start BUYING water? When did we all get so stupid?

"Yes, in our basement, but who are you here with? If he's in the procedure, you can't leave."

I mean.

If he'd begun to die, which he didn't. I'd have lead with that. But if he'd begun to die, was I on hand to administer last rites? Did I look like June Gardens, CPR expert? June. For all your ass emergencies.

So I was parched by the time they said, "Ned Nickerson family?"

That was me. I was Ned's family. I picked my shattered heart off the floor and went to Room One, after a morning of Number Two.

There was Ned. Completely out and looking sort of awful. He was so…unconscious. I had a momentary panic, where he looked too sick and I didn't think I could handle it and I wanted to run screaming out of the Ass Plus Health Center or whatever.

Have I reminded you to not include me in your medical emergency plans?

After a time, Ned started fussing a bit. He turned this way and that, and reached up for his oxygen thingies. He moved his arms around like he was trying to get out of a straightjacket. You know, like someone had proposed marriage or something.

"Just relax," said the nurse, and you know what I'd be bad at? Nurse-er-ing. Or whatever it's called.

Ned opened his eyes. He saw me but didn't seem to focus on me. I wondered if they could give me any tranquilizers or anything.

"Hey," said Ned, finally.

"Hi, Ned," I said.

"How are you doing?" he asked me, which killed me.

"Well, I'm fine. How are YOU doing, is the question." Please don't be barfy. Please be sans barf emotions. No barf. No barf. Ixnay on the arfbay.

"I feel a little dizzy," he said. "Your blood pressure's pretty low right now," the nurse told him. Hey, did I ever tell you what I'd be bad at? Nurse-ology. "We'll give him a few more minutes," she said, and bustled off.

Ned stared at me. "You look beautiful," he said. I'd rolled out of bed and gotten him, then spent the whole morning doing my Liquid Bummer impresh, and you know what I wasn't?


Hello, drugs.

"You're so beautiful," said Ned again, weakly. "Will you kiss me?"

"Hello, Mr. Nickerson! I'm Dr. Trouser," the doctor walked in. His name is not remotely Dr. Trouser, but I love myself just a little for making that up.

Turns out, he was the same guy who stuck a tube in my throat last year. "Oh my god! I remember you!" I said to the guy. "I thought you looked familiar," he said, and that is when I proceeded to open my mouth and show him the inside of my throat.

"Usss iss help?" I asked, pointing at my gullet.

June is available for all your medical needs. Call 1-800-June-Sux.

In case you were worried sick, Ned's colon is "unremarkable." ("That's just one man's opinion," I told Ned, then held my own hand fondly.)

Soon enough, we were ready to go home. "I'll draw the curtain and your wife can help you dress," said the nurse, and Ned and I exchanged uncomfortable glances before we giggled like idiots.

My pain. It's hilarious!

On the drive home, he asked if he'd been given any paperwork.

"Ned, yes. The doctor had me sign it and I put it in your book. Remember? I put them in the book you brought."

"The doctor?"

Turns out, he remembered NOTHING. Not the nurse, the doctor, the telling me I was beautiful. "I remember thinking I was glad to see you."

I took him inside. "Wow, that wasn't bad at all," he said contentedly.

He got to sleep and have a hose up in his nethers. I had to have nerves and get called his family and then HIS WIFE. Oh, happy day, this was a breeze.

"Aren't you glad I did it first, so you can see how not-bad it was?"

God help whatever cockamamie thing I'll say to Ned when I first wake up.

At Two With Nature · June's stupid life · Music · Other people's pets

June’s milkshake brings all the calves to the yard

"Oooo! I know!" I said to my friend. "Let's drive out to the country to that ice cream place, where you can pet cows and eat ice cream they made right there on the spot!"


For me, there's a whole afternoon. There's a black-and-white cat who lives there, and I think it's so cute they got a cat with cow colors. And there are Border Collies, or were. Now there's just one who lopes around without a care. Also, peahens.


So we went.


I don't even LIKE milk. Wouldn't it be awful if you produced milk and you didn't even like it? She asks tens of readers who've had kids and produced milk all over the place.


Oh, it's lovely there. I ordered the kids size, meaning, apparently, they give a scoop of butter pecan that is the size of a child between the ages of 18 months and 11 years old. Then you get to sit on chairs and eat your ice cream while grownup cows meander across the street, and the Border Collie lies in the middle of the road.


Alternatively, you can go kiss the BABY COWS! Guess who I was obsessed with. Was it old brownie, here, wif her eyelashessses? Was I obsessed at all? Was I an idiot? Did I knock a few kids aside who had the nerve to want to come near my new baby cow baby of all babies?

Caffie be cute.

Oh my god. I was obsessed with her. Did I mention?

do Caffie look hot?

The whole time I'm writing this, I have the back door open, and that is not a euphemism, and as I write I hear {quiet} {quiet} then GLUMP GLUMP GLUMP {quite} {quiet} GLUMP GLUMP GLUMP. The dogs are doing their full-speed circle around the yard, and when they hit the deck they galumph across it, then tear across the rest of the yard, and soon they'll both burst through the door and drink 79 gallons of water and tear out again.

The point is, I act like I don't already LIVE IN CHAOS and here I am thinking, I could totally get a brown cow baby.

O, you culd. Caffee agree.

Cow selfie. It went well.


Anyway, it was a good day at the creamery. I was nuttery. And that's a surprise.

Everyone's in now. This whole back room is all, "Henh, henh, henh…" Oh, they just went back to the water dish. I'll bet it's tidy and not at all splashy around that dish right now. But yeah, get a baby cow, June. Good plan.

So that happened. And then we went to dinner, and at the restaurant they were playing all grunge songs, like they had some kind of "Gritty Soudns of the 90s" soundtrack on their Pandora or something. But then, after about a hundred SoundPearlPilots songs of Nirvana, they broke into Led Zeppelin.

"What is this, the soundtrack of my life?" I asked, because hey, June, try to be more self-centered. "First we're in Seattle and now we've gone to all the high school basement parties I ever attended."

This got me thinking about if I were going to make a soundtrack of my life, what songs would I put on there, and it's sort of riveting to mull. Here are a few I've thought of so far.


Swear to god, this is the first song I thought of, and it's a jingle, and you know, Laura Ingalls Wilder's soundtrack would not include a jingle. But I can hear this playing from the living room TV while I tried to sleep in my room down the hall.

Anyway, it's kind of a fascinating thing to think about. The soundtrack of one's life. So far I'm at toddlerhood, where I was between 18 months and 11 years old.



Oh, shit, Lottie's crying. Gotta go break that shit up.

lotEE good! she totlee good! she go bak out now?

Food and Drink · I am berserk · In the kitchen with June · June's stupid life · My pets

The kind side of June. HAHAHAHAHA.

Photo on 6-26-16 at 11.33 AM

I went out last night. Slept in m'pearls. I also took Lottie with me, because I'm living like a HERMIT not going places because I feel bad about putting her in a crate too much. And unlike my mother, who has a dog-sitter come all the time when she goes out, I can't do that because not rich.

So she went with me. I was like Paris Hilton or some similar asshole. We had a good time, and she was fairly well-behaved, actually, but we got home after midnight–we'd let it all hang out–and she went straight to her crate and passed out. Drunk. She had on a little party hat, streamers all over her ruff. Dog phone numbers written on her paw.

Probably no one does that anymore, look desperately for a pen and then write your number on someone's hand. I remember having a phone number on my knee once, and getting up and heading straight to the pool the next morning, then finally looking down and going, Whose fucking number is that?

Nice. I hope my Lot doesn't have a number on her knee.

Speaking of Lottie, slutty Lottie who may have a drinking problem (she's in there gulping water like a banshee as we speak), I took another laundry basket shot of her.

May 19. May 19. Well, we can't dance together. No, we can't talk at all. Please take me along when you climb on down.

June 5. Say, Lottie, why don't you try changing dramatically?

June 26. She's also grown a fifth paw. Helpful.

Also, in much more important news, this is happening… IMG_0547

Oh my GOD, my life is complete. Remember when I had that idea to feature June's Junk each week, where I review junk food so you don't have to? I wanted to start with the Frito Burrito, which was the greatest thing ever invented and why so chubby. But NOW. NOW we have something to live for. I will report back to you forthwith. Oddly, they're coming out with it on a Monday, which, why?

But now I live for Monday. And the deliciousness that awaits me. There was a Burger King at the end of my street till a few months ago. It closed after more than 30 years. Ned told me that in high school, he and his friends went there for lunch every day. All the other kids went to McDonald's, but they were the alternative kids who went to BK.

Anyway, now it's gone and it's the only time I've needed Burger King. Will do Google search forthwith. Forthwith is a very big word with me today.

In other news that's not nearly as exciting as deep-fried mac and cheese dusted with FUCKING CHEETOS TEENSY ORGASM COULD NOT HELP, I have a friend who's going through the shit right now, the shit that life throws at you sometimes, so yesterday we had lunch and went to the cemetery. Because what's more fun than that?


As usual, I took photos to keep on hand for potential cat names. Behethland T is a perfect cat name.


These are m'cats, Bill Friddle and Myrtle Cheek. You totally pictured orange tabbys when I said that, didn't you? Those are orange tabby names. (June makes new plan. New cat import plan. June notes there is no one to stop her.)


Another excellent cat name. I see a tuxedo tabby. You could even say, "Wherefore art thou, Romeo?" even though that doesn't actually mean "Where are you, Romeo."

Anyway, my friend came up with his own tombstone idea, which will be the Google Map red pointy thing, all shiny and red, with "He has reached his destination" on his tombstone. Which, really, is an excellent idea. "What do you want on your tombstone?" he asked.

"I told you I was sick," I said. Too quickly. Have given too much thought.

We strolled around and decided any time someone had an image on their stone, it was a clue to how they died. One person had a sand dollar on her tombstone. "Someone in her family threw one at her and accidentally sliced her head open," said my friend.


"Bad frog legs," I said, then planned my own commitment ceremony.


"Butterfly attack."


"Her dog ate her."


"Died from clapping," said my friend, and I honestly don't know why he and I are having stretches of bad luck right now. When bad things happen to good people.

Anyway, I'm just saying, I don't know why more people don't hang at the cemetery, because I just loves it. I invite everyone to come make fun of my stone once it gets here, which will be sooner rather than later once I get addicted to deep-fried mac and cheese.

Dusted in Cheetos. Maybe that should be my epitaph. Dusted in Cheetos.

Anyway, I gotta go. I'm teaching that sensitivity seminar, and then I have my healthy cooking class I lead on weekends.


Myrtle Cheek

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life · Music

[Intentionally left blank]

Coming out of the shower this morning, I realized that right now, my house smells like a perfect combination of freshly brewed coffee and puppy. What more can you ask for?

Somehow that made me think of: drivin' home this evenin', coulda sworn we had it all worked out.


Mostly what that woman did in that video was stare blankly.

Wait, I've emulated it for you. Little music video for your viewing pleasure.


This is how men want us. Hot and blank. Like my coffee. Do you remember that friend of mine, The Other June, who I haven't seen in ages, who came over once and I offered her coffee, and I said, "Do you take anything in it?"

"Oh, no," she said, "just cream and sugar."

That has haunted me. It's haunted me all this time. That must have been seven years ago. Oh, no. Just cream and sugar.


Yes. I take abandoned toys and corkscrews in my coffee. You got any?

I love a cabana boy in my coffee.

Oh no. Just cream and sugar.


It's like that story I know I've told you, where I ran that marathon in Chicago. It was a fundraiser for AIDS Project Los Angeles, where we raised money for them and they flew us to Chicago and put us up in a swank hotel and we all ran the Chicago marathon. As opposed to flying to Chicago and running the Madrid marathon.

Anyway, there was a little party after. Whichever asshole planned the party said, Hey! I know! Let's have everyone run 26.2 miles, then after they've showered and gotten stiff, we'll have a party you have to access by climbing many many many stairs!

You've never seen so many people go upstairs sideways, like crabs.

The point is, once we were up there, mawing on snacks like we'd never seen snacks before, or like we'd, oh, run 26.2 miles that day, one guy said, "Weren't the showers at our hotel fantastic?"

They really were. It was a lovely hotel. The morning of the marathon, I had to get up at like 4:30 or some godawful time that even thinking about it now makes me ill, and I was filling my little running pack with dried fruit and stuff, and I looked out the window. Across the courtyard were so many other lights on, and I knew everyone in them was also running the marathon, and it was so thrilling. It was like Rear Window, but it was more Run Window.

Dear June, Try to at least make sense. Love, Reader.

OH MY GOD ANYWAY. Gay guy at party. Loved the showers. We agreed the showers were good.

"That was the second-most refreshing shower I've ever had," he said.


WHAT ELSE HAS HE DONE that there would ever be a shower, anywhere ever, more refreshing than the one you take after running




miles? What? Did he mud wrestle an elephant? Was he abandoned in a rainforest for a week?


I'll never know. I've thought of calling AIDS Project LA, asking for the entire roster of everyone who ran the 2000 Chicago marathon, and calling every man who ran it to ask WERE YOU THE ONE WHO TOOK THE SECOND-MOST REFRESHING SHOWER?

Also, who ranks their showers?

In completely unrelated news, the elusive two-headed cat came to feast at my dwelling.

Yesterday, I took the day off and ended up working in my lavender nightgown all day. "Oh, I'll just do this a minute," I said, opening my laptop. I closed it at 6:00. "Can I, like, get a refund on my day?" I emailed my boss. She said yes.

So that was relaxing. And then as soon as I took off my sexy nightgown and got on my workout clothes, I got a migraine. I did half of Tracy Gold workout until my head threatened to kill me, and then I lay prone and moaning all evening.

All in all, a fun day. Second-most fun day of my life. No, just cream and sugar.


While I've been writing you this impressive tome, I looked behind me and noticed this. This is nice. Now they have a window to the stars. It rained like the dickens last night, it rained sad orphans, and as a result the dogs tracked in ALL THE MUD. I mean, there is no more mud out there. They tracked in people's adobes, and mud huts–which are probably the same as adobes–and basically all the earth is here. Clean, is what my floors are.

I wash my floor almost every day now. It's like I'm a clean freak without the clean part.

Believe it or not, this important post must come to an end, and I know it cuts like a knife. I know you wanted more from me. No, not really. Just cream and sugar.




Hair · June's stupid life

June’s Rose Gold

Last night, I got my formidable roots done, and also, we've hired a very cute woman at work who's adorable, with purple roots and then long-ish lavender hair.

Everyone at work wants to be her all of a sudden.

"Remember I've been saying I wanted to get a color like that?" the Alex who sits next to me said. The one with the new dog, thanks to you guys. She HAS been saying that, and she currently sports the ombré hair, with the blonde at the bottom and darker at the top, and it looks fabulous.

"I just asked HR if it's okay for me to have pink hair," Slutty Pancakes from two floors up emailed me. "They said, 'Sounds cute.'"

Every once in awhile, someone comes in and sparks a revolution.

So, I mentioned to New Dog Alex that I had to leave for my hair appointment, and she said, "Why don't you get rose gold hair?" She's very hip, New Dog Alex is, so I take her every utterance very seriously, because deep, over here. Deep June. There's Gandhi, whose hair never looked good, and then there's June. If you're looking for a depth scale.

"Rose gold hair?" I asked, piqued as piqued could be.


"Oooo!" I said, Google fucking it.

"It'd look good," New Dog Alex said, and have I mentioned I hang on her every fashion word?

"What'dya think of rose gold hair?" I asked my old boss. He paused. "You'd look like an iPhone," he said.


And that is when I commenced ignoring my old boss.

I started imagining myself with the rose gold hair. I could see me gleaming rosily as the morning sun shone on it. I could see me shaking my gold locks, but not breaking them.

I could see my big wide hair looking pink.

"If I got rose gold hair, would I look like Bozo?" I asked Bitchy Resting Face Alex.

"Possibly," she said, and for your information, we are all freezing out BRF Alex. No one play with BRF Alex.

I texted my hairdresser. "Get out the rose gold!" I wrote. My hairdresser is 100% over me. She did not answer.

I screamed home and let Lottie out of puppy jail. Seven weeks ago when I got my formidable roots done, I took her with me, and she was such a teensy thing that she mostly just slept on my lap. 6a00e54f9367fb883401b8d1e8654b970c-pi
And tugged on my hairdresser robe. We should have known then she'd be World's Dickiest Puppy. She's behind me right now, having found an old hoof from the yard that my other dogs haven't played with since 1999. She's a regular archeologist, finding things my regularly scheduled normal dogs have discarded.

It's a sad day when Edsel starts being the "normal dogs."

Anyway, seven weeks ago I took her with me to the hairdresser and she mostly slept, but I knew if I brought her this time it's be like a Pterodactyl had come to the salon, so I got a puppy-sitter. Yes. I know.

The point is, as I was screaming home, I called my mother. My Aunt Kathy and cousin Katie were there, as well. I asked my mother, "If I get rose gold hair, would I look like Bozo?"

"Possibly," said my mother.

"Put Katie on."

"Possibly," said Katie.

I am a lone wolf. A rebel with no need for family. Or friends. Or coworkers. It's just me and the road. And by "the road," I mean the three miles to the salon.

When I got to the hairdresser, she stood up, ready for battle. "I got out the rose gold, June," she said.

"SQUEEEEEEE!!!" I said, ready for pink sunset hair. I would literally be down at the sunset grill every day. I would be June, bringing the roses, like that sheet music one of you sent me.


"I gotta tell you something, though," she said, sitting down. "First of all, I have only one tube, which would not be enough for your hair."


"Also, these fashion colors don't last," she said. "They cost 70 dollars to put on, and they're gone in one or two weeks."

I heard my money manager, Kaye, fainting off in the distance.

"So you don't think I should do it," I said. Oh, I was crestfallen. I was so looking forward to being rosy and goldie. I'd be Goldie Hawn. Like, if she went through a bloated, wide-hair stage.

My hairdresser looked at my crestfallen face. She knows I'm nearly 51, nearly at the end. My life, like my hair, is sunsetting. "I tell you what," she said. "Lemme get some more tubes and I'll do it next time, and I won't charge you the full amount," she said.





{squeeing silently}

"Hey, does your puppy always dog paddle in the water bowl?" the dog-sitter texted me.

And that is when I lost my rose-gold glow.

Fuck natural · Hair · June's stupid life

Luncheon with June

Oh, I was sleeping so NICELY this morning. Lottie did her usual waking at 6:00 thing, which we have down to a science. She whines once, I get up, still asleep, walk her outside, she pees, and without saying a single word to each other we go right back into the bedroom and fall asleep.

But today? I fell asleep for a long, long time after. I was jolted awake by the fact that I felt so rested. "Oh, no," I said, reaching for my phone.

8:37. I'm supposed to be at work at 8:30. It was 8:30fucking7.

"OH, CRAP!" I shouted, getting Lottie out of her jail cell, running to the back door, letting those two hooligans out, dumping food in bowls, letting hooligans back in, showering while they ate, letting them BACK FUCKING OUT while I dressed, and at 8:57, I was ready to leave.

I went to the back yard to see Edsel and Lottie running fast fast fast as they could around the yard, in a big circle, doing that thing where they're both leaning sideways, so fast are they traversing. If I say they were turning to butter, is everyone going to get up in arms that I referenced Little Black Sambo again, a thing I had FORGOTTEN was a ref to that book?

Little Black Sambo. How is it, that in this lifetime, we were able to purchase a book with that title? And think nothing of it! Good gravy.

Anyway. I felt terrible making them come in, but I had to, and they were panting like, you know, a couple of dogs.

"Henh, henh, henh, henh," smiled Lottie as she made her way to the water bowl.

"Huh huh huh huh," breathed Edsel, as he shared the bowl with Lottie. There was no time for alpha wars.

Her little heart was still racing when I dumped her back in her crate, and I felt awful about it, but here I am back at home and she's no worse for the wear. She's back outside, doing Lottie things. She loves a good rock, man. She brings in rocks constantly, and likes to dump them on the floor, scratching it something awful, and stay tuned for a very special episode of Lottie Goes to the Pound coming your way soon.

Like, the more I know her, the more I TOTALLY GET why someone said, "Let's dump her near that gym where all the white people go." They knew some asshole do-gooder would take her in and deal with her punk ass.

Hello, Lottie, two minutes after you were dumped. I am your asshole.

So the point is, I got to work by five after 9:00, and to tell you the truth they're a little loosey goosey about time there, so the whole thing went without incident, other than my cold panic and looking like a homeless person today.

Photo on 6-21-16 at 12.29 PM
Hey, hurr.

Good god.

I'm eating lunch while I talk to you. I had a can of Franco-American spaghetti, because I too am Franco and American and I like to eat the food of my people. How is spaghetti remotely French? Is James Franco heir to the spaghetti-in-a-can fortune? If so, why does he work so much? What the hell is wrong with him?

Anyway, I had that, and now I'm having some Pecan Nut-Thins and "Classic" hummus. That's what it reads. Classic. Like it's the Chanel of hummus. The little black dress of hummus. My hummus is The Wizard of Oz. Beetoven's Fifth. Of hummus.

Goddammit. Lottie just brought in another rock. I hate this rock obsession. Maybe, like my hummus, she's into classic rock.

Now I'm having blueberries, and perhaps you're thinking, Wow, June, eat a little smackerel of something, why don't you? Why so thick, June?

Tonight I get my hair done, my roots, as it were, and you can't see them above because I use root spray. But remember that scene in Terms of Endearment when Shirley Maclaine had the roots because Debra Winger was dying? I'm like that underneath this spray. GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE SHOT.

Don't you hate a bitter blueberry? It's so disconcerting.

Okay, I'm glad we had this talk. My mother just called and she's getting her hair done today, too, so it must be genetic. Oh! And in summation, I was able to finish all the episodes of Orange is the New Black last night. Hashtag goals.

What the fuck does Squad Goals mean, and why is everyone saying it? I hate all this meme crap. Whatever, MaryLou; why don't you go work at McDonald's?

Okay, June, out. Should I do something different with my hair tonight? I mean, other than banish the late-for-work-homeless look. Tell all. My hairdresser will adore us. Remember that time I sat down, and with a straight face said, "I'm thinking perm."

June. Cut her hair for the challenge. Stay for the hilarity. And sixty dollars.

Heart hands,

Lunchy June

June's stupid life · Television

A loafing June, a jug of La Croix, and thou

I got a lot accomplished this weekend, and by "accomplished," I mean I watched 10 hours of the new season of Orange is the New Black. I'm kind of disappointed in myself that I didn't get all 13 episodes in, but you know, you do what you can to accomplish your goals and if you fall a little short, you reward the effort, not the failure.

I should totally make those awful inspirational posters for work. Like, with a picture of an eagle in flight.


Reward the effort. The effort of moving less than someone in a coma. All weekend.

Anyway I was toiling away at work on Friday when I remembered it was my BIG DAY, my day that OITNB was coming back. Oh, I was excited. I got everything done as fast as I could and sneaked out of there early.

Rebel, rebel, you tore your dress.

But I had to do a bunch of stupid STUFF before I could commence watching, and how ANNOYING.


Things like give my stupid animals stupid FOOD, which, really? Can't you order in? Orange is back. Orange is the new back.


Goddammit, Lottie. I gots no TIME for you to eat the cat food. MY PRISON SHOW IS JUST WAITING FOR ME. You get the trots, you're on your own. Cause m'show.


JEEEESUS, it's practically SATURDAY by now.

IMG_0480 IMG_0481
I also had to let their stupid asses OUT so they could PEE, which actually probably happened before they ate, but what do you want from me? I downloaded a shit ton of animal pics to my desktop just now. IT'S HARD.

Lottie needs to figure out those ears, man. Like, pick a direction already.

IMG_0487 IMG_0488

All I wanted–ALL I WANTED–was to have a nutritious slow-cooked dinner and watch my show. Stupid life. Stupid responsibilities.

Screen Shot 2016-06-20 at 8.03.26 AM

Then I had to walk the goddamn dogs. Who INVENTED this life? If I were one of those hairless-homed people with zero pets, I'd already have been heavily into episode one. Probably already gotten to see some prison titties. But no.


And walking in such an orderly manner, thanks to June's Iron Fish of Discipline.

Goddammit. FIST. Not June's iron fish. What even is that, even?

Lottie needs to figure out those ears. Did I mention? Say, I know when she could do it. HOW ABOUT WHILE I'M WATCHING ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK?


Son of a…fuck YOU, Tracy Chapman! Fuck you all to fuck.

Finally, FINALLY, I could watch my show, and YES I DOWNLOADED A NETFLIX, KAYEEEE. I don't even care. It's my show.

IMG_0498 IMG_0500
Fortunately, the rest of my cast members participated in my binging. My pets: enabling me since 2016.

In summation, I watched a lot of TV this weekend. And I'd like to thank the reader who sent me that TV when I moved in here. THANK YOU, reader! You are a good person, and I am able to isolate like a DEMON with that TV.

I gotta go work now, but I need some help with an article I'm writing. It's about how we aren't grownups anymore. Like, where did all the Walter Cronkites go?

I have some good examples, mostly having to do with what idiots we are about politics now (yes, coming up with a brilliant name such as "Obummer" is so much more effective than discussing the issues we disagree on) and about the delightful men I've met online. (And my example in the article is actually about how idiotic Trump protesters are being, in case you think I'm being one-sided.)

But what else? Can you think of other examples? THANKS!



Beauty products · Fuck natural · June's stupid life

What kind of kid were you?

We somehow got into this discussion at work, and it was a good one. Were you the kid who tore out the door at dawn and didn't come back till the streetlights came on? (Ned.)

Were you the kid who took everything apart to see how it worked? (Marvin.)

I was weird. I should have warned you to brace yourself. I didn't like other kids all that much, and I grew up to not like people, so what do you know. Anyway, mostly I wanted to sit around and read, or make up stories, and record myself acting them out on my tape recorder.

And cats. I liked to pet cats. I was friends with all the neighborhood cats.

Did I mention I was weird?

So what were you like?

P.S. I was trying to Google old pictures of myself, so I typed byebyepie blog + "june was 8," and this came up and OH MY GOD QUIET TOUCH. Totally forgot about it. There is nothing I like better than old cosmetics ads. If anyone wonders what to get me for my birthday, any Glamour, Cosmopolitan or Teen Magazine from the late '70s would make me shit my own self.


Also, Ima get that hairdo.

ACK! Oh my god, now I found this!!!



Okay, well now I've just fallen over dead. Someone get that poor woman away from him. He needs to get back to Oz to guard the door to The Wizard, anyway.

Really leaving now. Tell me what kind of kid you were. I need to stop Googling '70s cosmetics ads.



I am a pleasure of life · June's stupid life

June saves all of her coworkers from a burning building. You’re welcome, coworkers.


Who is the DELIGHTFUL individual who sent me these? They're Jo Malone fragrances, and they come in really excellent scents. Last night I sprayed on Nectarine Blossom and Honey, then later because I'm obsessed I sprayed on Blackberry and Bay.

I used to live on Bay and Cooper. It didn't smell nearly as good.

Now this morning I put on red roses, and I smell like I'm about to be delivered to your doorstep. Please say yes. Love, Jonathan.

That was only funny if you've memorized When Harry Met Sally, and why not?

Anyway, now I have something to live for, and also Jo Malone invites you to LAYER her fragrances, so after I've tried them all individually, then I can get into LAYERING and oh my god.

This is the kind of shit that can keep me amused for weeks.

hooo care?

I'm sorry to report that Lottie is going through an awkward stage, where her ears don't know what the hell they're doing and she's sort of all snout at the moment. At least she's charming and not at all annoying. Oh, wait.

LOTee resent

Oh! Speaking of dogs, my next-open-workspace-area neighbor sent me a photo of her dog that you helped get out the pokey.

…Aaaaand I can't open it. Goddammit. It keeps saying it doesn't recognize the file or something. Well, of COURSE you don't recognize it; you've never MET it before.

The best I could do was take a screen shot of them. Goddammit. I hate everything. Anyway, here he is.


I'll just have to keep asking for photos.

Yesterday at work, we had a fire drill, and my coworker Griff got the email that read "Fire drill" and he was all mad that it was going to be some pressing, all-hands-available-all-night thing, and then he was so relieved when he clicked and it was just about a literal fire.

Anyway, they told us we were having a fire drill, which isn't very realistic, because in the event of an actual fire you are probably going to be surprised. More surprised than happy.

The point of my telling you this is they assigned me as group leader.


Group leader.


"I just want you all to know that should a real fire occur, I will step on all of your HEADS to get to safety," I announced, standing up and addressing the crowd like I was Norma Rae.


If I were her coworker, I'd hold up a sign that read SUPPORT UNDERGARMENTS and perhaps DEODORANT.

Anyway, my crowd ignored me, as they always do. Right before the fire drill was to happen, I popped into Wedding Alex's office, as she always has chocolate. "I thought I'd make s'mores when the fire gets here," I said, changing my status on Facebook to In a Relationship with June Gardens.

"Have you gone down your list to see if everyone's here today?" she asked. Wedding Alex is one of those organized people I don't understand.

"…List?" I asked, around a mouthful of chocolate. I didn't have TIME for a fire to melt it. Busy executive.

She looked incredulous. She often looks incredulous when I am speaking near her. "June, there's a whole list of people you're responsible for. Have you looked at the map to see where you're supposed to exit to once the alarm goes off?"


I plucked another dark chocolate out her dish. I was going to need strength. Incredible inner strength.

I mean, she didn't even HAVE to look at that email. And yet she'd looked at it and opened the Excel doc in it and actually absorbed what it had to say. Why do they MAKE people like that? What's the point?

I looked at the "map" and it had, like, this blue blob where I was to dutifully lead my people to safety. "Does this, like, blue blob mean we gather at the loading dock?" I asked someone.

"No, June, that's the complete opposite of where we're supposed to go," she said, and why do people pretend they know how to read maps? No one does. They're just a ruse.

So then I got into it. I printed out (!!!) the document, combed the office–not literally–for everyone on my list and told everyone how we'd proceed out the door.

"I love how now it's a thing for you and 10 minutes ago you didn't even know there WAS a list," said smug, annoying Alex, whose chocolate I will still eat despite her poor attitude.

At that point, I was wishing there was time for us to have team t-shirts, but right then the alarm went off, and right then I knew. It was time for the fire drill.

"AAAACKKKKK!!!!" I screeched, flapping my hands in panic. "I just wanted it to be realistic, cause that's what I'd really do," I said, gathering my group. Who I'm sure felt assured they were in good hands.

Look. I got all those motherfuckers out the door and to our spot, which also turned out to be wrong, which I learned once the OTHER groups were all, Why are you guys over there? So we clumped on over to everyone else, and said thank god it's at least a nice day, and that is when, fueled by sweets, I got the inspiration to photograph everyone's shoes.

IMG_0420 IMG_0416 IMG_0417

Then the men were all, "What about OUR shoes?" and whatever with them, but okay.

IMG_0419 IMG_0418

The point is, no one burned to death and I feel like after that roaring success, it's only a matter of time till I'm running the whole company.

Last night was incredibly productive, in that I got home, put on a robe, and watched Real Housewives of New York till 10 p.m., when it was time for Watch What Happens Live and I watched that. I know it's an inspiration, the way I Do It All, but not everyone can be me.

I'm available for fire drills, in case anyone wants to hire me for their office affair. Speak with my assistant, Wedding Alex.

Aging ungracefully · June's stupid life

See the tiniest detail

Yesterday on Facebook, I asked everyone how many of their Facebook friends had been…friends, IfYouKnowWhatI'mSayin'. How many have you KNOWN. In THAT way. Hashtag nudge.

Every once in awhile, I'm reminded of something Ned said to me when we were first dating, and out drinking on a Tuesday night. "This is as mature as we get," he said. "We don't turn into British bankers when we're 50 or anything."

He was right about that.

Anyway, I had the highest number out of anyone I asked, which, hello, Trampy. But maybe it just means I'm gregarious.

Lottie just came in with another rock. She has the unfortunate habit of getting a big rock and bringing it to her lair to chew. She has 75 million toys of every texture possible. But they're no rocks.

"We took Lottie's rock and replaced it with Blu. Let's see what happens."


She got her head bitten off. That's what happened. Look at Edsel's elbow of possession.

That chair is a goner. I have to get it recovered. I HAVE SO MANY THINGS TO DO AT THIS HOUSE THAT I CANNOT AFFORD. Hashtag Chinese delivery. That's only funny if you read yesterday's post.

Anyway, I listed how many people I'm Facebook friends with with whom I've also slept, and what I wish I could do now is download each of their many many many pictures

–hi, mom–

and give you a little rundown on them. Oh, THIS one seemed like he'd be a dud, but he was FABULOUS. That sort of thing. This one was a little lacking in charm, if you catch my drift.

I feel like maybe I'd be sued. Or at least glared at. By my exes. And mom.

Ned and I broke up nine months ago and I've kissed one person two times. THAT'S IT. That's ALL my action. In nine months. Except for the occasional forbidden tryst with Ned, which doesn't count.

Hate. Hate everything.

Oooo, but I got a new mirror! So I can watch myself wither.

A faithful reader sent me an Amazon certificate, I forget why. Because I got Lottie? Because Talu died? Because I'm so riveting? Who can recall. The point is, my current mirror's light was dying, which is a euphemism for my whole life. So with that certificate, I got more of my Deva Curl conditioner–and shut up about the appropriateness of the name–and a mirror that magnifies 10 times.


Oh, HELL yeah! The tiniest details!

Because I needed to me more self-absorbed.

Why can't June meet a man? Well, she's staring at her pores 12 hours a day, for one thing.

The next man who gets involved with me has the reassurance that EACH PORE has been attended to, over here. So. That's no small thing. Especially with THESE pores.

I guess I'd better get in the shower and go to work like a normal person. A normal person whose face was magnified 10 times all morning. If you could magnify anything 10 times, what would it be? I guess I'd magnify my action. Actshun. I'd magnify my youth.

I'd magnify Lottie's energy. Aw, HELL, no, I would not. They just tore past here in a blur. They tear around the house and then BOOM out the door and then BOOM back in the door and around the house again and what it is here is relaxing.

Last night I was in bed scrolling through my phone, when I realized Iris had her spine pressed on me.


Then I took pictures of the other creatures in and around my bed.

"Happy New Year. In jail."


"I'm June. Fly me. And my nose."

 Okay, I'll see you later. I'll see you magnified 10 times. Is that magnified 10 times or are you just happy to see me?



Am British · At Two With Nature · June's stupid life

June speaks

There are three things I wanted to tell you about: the turtle, my conversation and the intuitive. Which do you want to hear first? …Okay.

Remember last week, when a bunch of you donated to my coworker Alex so she could adopt that dog and set him up in the life to which he is about to be accustomed? First of all, he's home with her, and doing great. He totally wants to get up in the cat, in a friendly way, but they're still keeping them separated. She's waiting for a really good picture of the three of them to give me to show you, but is having trouble getting the dog to sit still for a picture and I have no idea what that's like.

Speaking of which, here's more of the Lottie-in-front-of-the-laundry-basket shots.

First one, about a month ago…


About a week after that…


Last week…


Last night…


She slowed down this week! She's still between the top three dots, depending on if you're measuring her head or her ridiculous ears.


Oh my god, none of this is why I gathered you here. SO ON THAT DAY, the one where you guys donated to Alex, I was excited so I called my mother. I knew she and my stepfather were driving to his doctor appointment kind of far away, so I called the mobile. Because British.

My stepfather answered. My mother was driving, but he offered to relay to her my story while she drove.

"Okay," I said. "Well, I work with this woman. Maybe like two years now, I've worked with her. She's amazing. Really smart and composed and way more mature than me, which there's a stretch. She's had a boyfriend just forever, and he just graduated college, and they wanted to get a dog after he got a real job."

"There's a woman at June's job," my stepfather said to my mother.

"Wow," I said, astonished at my stepfather's…brevity.

"Okay," I continued, undaunted. "But, so, they wanted to get a dog but they wanted to wait, and now he has a real job so for weeks they've been talking about it and saving up and she's been on PetFinder looking at dogs. There was even one she had her heart set on because she liked his funny name, I can't think of it now. It was one of those celebrity puns like Charles Barkley, but it wasn't Charles Barkley…"

"Her coworker's getting a dog," said my stepfather to my mother.


So what I'm saying to you is my mother did not get to hear every nuance.

So that's that story. I'd love to hear my stepfather's riveting version of it.


As you know, Kayeeeee has me on a budget, which includes not ordering food to be delivered. I have stuck with that fucking plan, but yesterday I was clean out of food, and did not want to go to the grocery store till payday (tonight). So for the first time in ages, I called the Chinese delivery place.

Shut up.

The delivery woman came, and she was all, "Oh my GOD! You got a PUPPY! What does Edsel think?" The dogs were outside, and she walked to the gate to greet them. You know how easy it is to greet a puppy, because what wriggling?

Anyway, afterward, she said, "I really hope you don't think I'm weird."

I love any conversation that starts that way. I mean, I really do. I'm instantly intrigued.

"But, I'm an intuitive. And I've always loved delivering to your house. There's just such a good vibe. And it comes from both you AND the house. Just great energy," she said.

"You know, I've always felt this was a happy house," I said, because I'm as weird as she is. Anyway we talked a little about my fabulous vibes and so on and eventually exchanged numbers and we've already texted, and I kind of feel like I'm the only person these things happen to.


Last night I was taking the freeway exit to my neighborhood, and I saw a turtle on the side of the road. He was huge. And he was stuck on this bend of the freeway under an overpass thing. (Official name®.)

Oh my GOD, that was a turtle! I told my own self, which is sad.

So I screamed home and let Lottie out of her jail. I decided to leave Lottie with Edsel in the yard and I headed back to the freeway exit. It was less than a minute away, but once I got there I realized there was no way to get to the turtle. So then I pulled into an office area that I saw if I could walk behind like a crazy person, I might be able to traverse this snakey area and get to the turtle that way. In the meantime, I'm Googling "Snapping Turtles" on my phone so I don't grab one and get my arm snapped clean off.


Here's the office area. Annoying local readers will ask, "Where was this, June?" and WHO CARES?


Here's the snakey part I thought I might traverse, but there was no way to get to the other side without walking on water, which of course I can do but I didn't want to show off.


Here's me knowing I'm ridik.

Eventually, I got back in my car and drove the exit all over again, and slowed to a crawl, a turtle crawl, at the turtle spot. I was fully prepared to stop all traffic and lug him into my car.

He was dead.

Oh, poor Mr. Shel Gordon the Turtle. I can see how he GOT where he was, but he musta had no way to get out of there. I hate the thought of him suffering so.

So that's my sad story.

"June saw a dead turtle."

From now on, let's summarize my whole posts in stepfather speak. That will be your challenge as a reader.


Jooooooon and her vibes

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

The weekend. As told by Joon Gardens.

This is why you can’t let puppies out your sight for even one minute. This is why my days are spent never deep sitting anymore, but rather bounding up constantly whenever that dog toddles out of the room. And have I lost weight? No.

Also, experts advise that when your puppy is in duress, it’s the most humane to snap a photo for your blog before coming to her aid. My phone happened to be in my HAND. Back off, PETA.

Other than attempted murder by bra, my weekend was fairly copacetic. On Friday, I met up with Kit and we never actually spoke. She invited me to the local bookstore to see a panel of gay people talking about their experiences, which was made even more interesting after the events in Orlando.


There’s the back of Kit’s head, in white, which is all I saw because I drove around downtown for TWENTY MINUTES looking for ANYWHERE to park, and I had to finally go to the rapey tall garage place and park on the 5th floor, and then I made myself walk down instead of the elevator because fitness guru and the point is I was late and it was standing room only by then.

The talk went on for more than an hour and I was wearing heels because Hashtag Trying to Pick Up Lesbians Just a Teensy Bit, so after awhile my feet hurt and I went to sit in the front window of the store.


And that is when the fire alarm inexplicably went off, causing the fire department to come, and Hashtag Forget it, Lesbians, June Has a New Goal.

Also, here was Iris’s weekend. The whole thing. She needs help. Send help. Your donation could help an obsessed Iris today. A few pennies a day will get Iris off the…oh, forget it. Those birds will come out of that house and Iris will be all, “Welcome to Earth” like Will Smith in that one movie with the aliens.

On Saturday, I got up with a friend who said, “Is it possible that we don’t blog about our time together?” which, ?


So, okay, I won’t. But I ate barbecue and I matched the ceiling at a brewery.


We were there at maybe 3 in the afternoon and the place was packed. Who are all these yahoos getting their drink on at 3 p.m.? I’d be asleep by 5, like, for the night.

That ring was on the anyone-can-take-it table at work. I took it.

Sunday showed up like it always does, and Lottisimo P. Houndsworthy got up with her trainer and acted perfect again. I get one hour a week where she’s impeccable.

LOTee impecc eh bull.

The trainer taught her “place,” which means I’m to gesture grandly at the bed and she’s to go to it until I say she can’t. She did it for him 800 times and when he left she got on there for .0000002 seconds and left in a huff. It’s not what I said, it’s how I said it.


Here she is sitting serenely while the trainer walked all over yonder. He could have walked to the corner store for cigarettes and she’d have waited patiently. If I got out my pistol right now and pointed it at her, she’d still get off the bed. Still, if you practice with her enough, she will mind really well.

“Wow!” said the trainer. “She learns fast. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a pup learn so fast.”

She only likes him.

edz luff you truuuuly. truuuleee deer.


After the trainer goes, there’s usually a blissful period where we all rest a bit. I hang from the ceiling, as I am a bat. I love the tableau, of Jo’s book, the inevitable paper towels, the inevitable enzyme spray, water and a notebook for all my pithy pithy thoughts du jour. And a goddamn shoe. WHAT IS SO RIVETING ABOUT MY SHOES?

Then I took the Eds and Lot for separate walks, so Edsel can actually, you know, walk, and Lottie and I ran into Ava’s family.


She loves the shit outta those kids. “Can we run with her?” they wanted to know. Fuck yeah, you can run with her. Run till she turns to butter, I beg you.

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“I’m thinking of starting a dog-sitting business this summer,” said Joan, whose real name I STILL DON’T KNOW. Anyway, she has her first customer.

IMG_0358 (1)
Lottie was loath to let them go.


edzul miss all fun! heeeeeeee!

So that sums it up. I did Tracy Anderson twice and ate fettuccine Alfredo with blackened chicken three times (1 serving at a restaurant fed me three times) so fitness was a wash.

What’d you do all weekend? Tell all.

Oh, and here’s my latest Purple Clover. It’s about things I miss from childhood. Like being able to eat fettuccine Alfredo and not care.



Friends · June's stupid life · My pets · Other people's pets

Blew chunks and yellow dogs


Lottie had the trow-ups last night, but she's okay today. Did any of you ever read that blog, Blue Skies and Yellow Dogs? She doesn't blog anymore, but she had this hilarious housekeeper who'd leave her long notes, often about the fact that Colleen hadn't scored a man yet. But what sticks in my mind is that one of her pets was sick and the housekeeper wrote that "he had the trow-ups."

When I got home last night and fed Lottie, she slid down in front of her dish and put her head on her paws. Eventually she sat up and barked at her food. The trainer said to give her 15 minutes a feeding, then put her food up and that puppies don't starve themselves to death.

So, okay, I put her food up. But then she wanted to LIE on me while I was on the couch, a thing she never wants to do unless she's totally drunk. The rest of her time involves annoying the other animals. But I let her sleep on me.

Until she woke up heaving.

Oh, did she barf. A lot. I was so worried, and I looked it up and saw it was pretty common and I didn't SCOOP HER UP and SCREAM her to the overnight vet as I wanted to. Instead, I did Tracy Anderson and kept an eye on her while I did. When I was done, I went over to the dog bed, where she put her head on me and looked up at me with sad eyes.

Oh my GOD.

So. She slept with me last night and not the crate and guess what.

IMG_0292 IMG_0291
She's so busy being an asshole that I can't even really capture her on film right now. So, good. The trow-ups are over.

She was just so miserable. My poor girl. Also, I'm gonna need a new yoga mat. Blech.


In the meantime, the other night my pal Jo had a reading of her new book, Naked DJ. I helped copy edit it a few years back, and she gave me a copy and I'm reading it all over again, anyway. It's one of those perfect books for the summer, when you just want to get absorbed in a story. Jo was really a DJ in New York, so she speaks from experience. I don't know if she's ever naked. I mean, she must be sometimes.

Anyway, I went to her book reading at the local bookstore even though I'd had a damn migraine all day, and where's my spiderweb that reads "Some Friend"?


Kit was there, and Kayeeeee of Marty Martin and Kayeeee. Marty was also there, with his doppelganger, his son Parker.


(Marty designed Jo's bookmark. I know, man!) Marty's son Parker just started college last year, and that motherfucker got to study in Italy for his first year of college. Italy.


I went to a community college about five miles past the border of my hometown my first year of college, but okay.

I had to see photos, all year long, of that motherfucker all over Europe, with hot Europe girls, doing fun Europe things, and now he's back and going to tough it out in college in NEW YORK from here on out.


Is it unkind to refer to your friend's kid as "motherfucker"? Because, COME ON. With his LIFE.


He bought a cheerful Camus book while he was there, just to sort of balance out the PERFECTION THAT IS HIS LIFE RIGHT NOW.


Here's a picture I accidentally took of myself walking to the bookstore. I kind of like it.

At the reading, Jo played Led Zeppelin and challenged people to an air guitar contest. One guy had the nerve to do it, and he was great. IMG_0260
On the way home, I did what I never do. There's a street light between my house and downtown that if I look to the left, I can see my old house with Ned. I never, ever, ever look. Sometimes I even put my hand up like a blinder so I don't look.

So, I looked.


I know. It's like we're all back living there again, isn't it? Okay, you have to look ALL THE WAY down the street, past the other set of lights, but there it is. The blue-gray house. Not the green one. Those green people hated us. They put shutters in all their windows once we moved in, and had them shut all the time. God knows what they saw, over there, at our house.

Anyway, it's sad, but no longer I-can't-breathe sad. So.


In the meantime, I have BABY BITTY BIRDS in my birdhouse, and every time I walk by, I hear peep peep peeep peeep peeeeeeep! It's so cute. Iris similarly finds it charming.

I better go. I think the Alex who sits next to me was able to get her dog last night already, so further reports as developments warrant.

Faithful Readers · June's stupid life · Other people's pets

The one where June has the BEST READERS, even if they do give advice

I haven't been here in ages and now I have 296 things to tell you.

On Tuesday, TypePad was down and I could not post and I was SO MAD, because I wanted to tell you something SO COOL and I couldn't.


The Alex who sits next to me is a grownup. Compared to me. Which. Anyway, she and her boyfriend have wanted a dog for a LONG TIME, but they were being sensible and waiting till they both had real jobs, which ? Just go to a parking lot. There are plenty of free dogs there. Pound sign: Two Parking Lot Dogs So Far.

She's worked at my office for I think two years now, and she's doing great there and it's not at all annoying. We'll have meetings and it'll be all, "Alex wrote THIS and it was WONDERFUL and we ALL HAD A BIG PARTY in our PANTS over it. Oh, and June wrote something too."

Anyway, her boyfriend also just got a real job–he'd been in school. So this past weekend was their first visit to the shelter, where they thought they'd start looking and begin the whole months-long process about disagreeing on which dog to take.

They didn't disagree.

"I fell in love with a dog this weekend," said Alex, who never says anything. I swear her first year she never spoke. She's super intimidating, with her reserve and her smart brain and all, till you get to know her and you realize she's way nicer than you. Which.

"Oh, the dog you'd been looking at?" she'd been online, and we all know how that is, when we get hooked on the dog porn that is PetFinder.

"No, at the shelter. Look at him." She had pictures of him on her phone. And I hate to be obsessed, but doesn't that look like Lottie of the Future, with the muzzle and the eyebrowns and so on?

Lottie of the Future!

Well, that's when I got invested, because you can imagine how she was clamoring for me to get all up in her life. Oh, good, June's on it. "Are you going to GET him?" I tried to keep the Aunt Bee tremor of excitement out of my voice.

"We want to, but we didn't expect to find a dog this soon. I don't know if we can afford everything he needs."

Of COURSE she can't afford everything he needs. No one can. I mean, I can't, ever. Which. But I mean, new dog. Entirely new dog. She doesn't even have any old, dead dog shit she can dredge up. So not only are there shots and neutering (the shelter does the neutering, at least), but there's the vet wellness visit in general, and bowls, and a giant brush (that dog's gonna need a giant brush) and leashes and dog nail polish because I've decided he's trans and the Welcome My Dog party.

And of course the DNA test. Dogs are expensive.

And that's when it hit me. YOU GUYS. You guys are like ME. You're TOTALLY gonna want her to get this two-year-old dog out the shelter and home with her. I know she'll give it a solid home, and YOU know I wouldn't condone anything else, so OH MY GOD I was so excited to sneak behind her back and get funds.

Then the damn Type and its Pad wouldn't work.

is mom goeeg to have fit? it feel like fit tyme.

I don't even KNOW what's on that dog's eyebrow. Is he doing his Lottie impression? Impresh? Is it Faithful Reader Anita who hates that? Impresh. There. I said it again. ANITA.

At any rate, because I couldn't get on MY OWN BLOG which I pay BIG DOLLARS for every year (it comes out to $15 a month. Still.), I did the next-best thing.

I got on Pie on the Face.

If you're new here, and really? Blogs were a thing in like 2007. But here you are. "Oh, a BLOG!" I mean, I'M still here, sure, but I'm old and sad. What's your excuse? And oh, hey, welcome!

Anyway, if you're new here, Pie on the Face is where people who LOVE this blog and can't get enough of ME join together to show each other cat videos. As opposed to the rest of Facebook where that never happens. But sometimes they'll write something on the cat video like, "June loves cats."

I do. I do love cats. Not that you'd know I'd had any, what with this all-dogs-all-the-time blog lately.

hooo care.

Yes, I DID just paint that porch two years ago. I need a real person to come fix the steps and paint everything. My birthday is coming up. Now you know what to get me.

Dear June, Go fuck your own self. Love, Your Readers

Look at stretchy Iris. God, I love that cat.

Anyway, so on Tuesday morning, after being SQUELCHED by TypePad, I stampeded to Pie on the Face and told you guys my work neighbor Alex's tale of woe. "Let's all throw in five bucks and help her get that dog!" I said. "Here's my PayPal info," I said. Then I left for work.

It's a six-minute drive. By the time I got to work, bitch already had 57 dollars. (PayPal takes a cut unless you specify it's for a friend.)

I remained silent.

By the time I logged in and got coffee and snarled at everyone, she had 75. (squee!)

I think I broke by the first $100, but maybe I made it to 150. But eventually I confessed. "I KNEW they'd help you get this dog," I said. I was beside myself.

"Oh my god, June, I can't take that money," she said, amazed. "It's for YOU and you HAVE to," I said. She texted her boyfriend. "He wrote that I should pick you up and give you a big squeeze," she said, excited.

That is when I cockpunched her.

By the end of the day, you guys sent her more than FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS, which she thinks is too much and which every dog owner knows is not even enough. I told her to start a savings just for the dog, and then she'll have it if she needs to call the trainer, or board him, or when he swallows a dime or something.

The dog will be theirs by the weekend. He's officially THEIR DOG OH MY GOD THANK YOU SO MUCH, you guys. You really are the bomb.

Tomorrow I will tell you the other 257 things I have to tell you, and what I like about myself is my consistency with numbers.

do reeders think they can find new home for LOTee? a home wear no one hold her 87 howrs a day? LOTee WISH TO PLAY. PLAY! LET LOTee PLAY! OOOOO, der a…thing! LOTee must get…THING!

I am a pleasure of life · I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life · My pets

Stampeding toward Evelyn

I never did tell you why I got mad at the vet's office, and stormed out, and it's official. Get the papers in order. I have become my grandmother.

Since 2008–way back in aught eight, when I moved here, I've been going to that vet. I forget how I found them, but they've seen me through all my iterations of cats and dogs. The cats formerly known as my alive cats, who now serve as skeletons in my yard, Ruby and Francis.

Ruby DeLuna

Francis Carport

They've taken care of lost-them-in-the-divorce Winston and Henry and Anderson.

Henry and Winston. I love the post that accompanies this picture. I was one of my favorites. BABY HENRY.

They also saw me through poor dead Roger and poor dead Tallulah and now Lily and Iris and Edsel and now Lottie. A LOT OF PETS, is what I am saying to you. CASH COW, is what I am saying to you.

The point is, you can never get in there. I've complained about this before. They're open till noon on Saturdays and those Saturdays are always booked. They close from noon till 2:00 on weekdays. And while they stay OPEN till 6:00, you can't get in after 5:00.


I mean, whose convenience are we aiming toward, here? Cause it feels like NOT THE CUSTOMERS'.

This has been a constant struggle for me. I wonder if I could be more dramatic right now.

But, I mean, Jesus CHRIST a lot of my money goes to the vet. The reason I don't have a new nose is because the vet has it.

So Lottie got her first shots there on May 13. How puppies work is, they get all sorts of shots and then allegedly they need "boosters" until they're 16 weeks old, and why we can't just get them one round of shots when they're 16 weeks old is beyond me. I long for the days when you just tied a dog out back and when it got sick you shot it. Now THAT was economical.

Anyway, she needed this alleged booster three weeks after May 13, and they told me to come in June 3. As June 3 approached, it occurred to me I didn't know what time the appointment was. I knew for sure it was June 3, because I was excited to see what she weighed so I was kind of counting the days. On June 2nd, I called the vet to see what convenient time my appointment was.

"Oh you don't HAVE an appointment," they said.

Well, yes I did. I remember making it. I just don't remember what time. I plan to dig through Lottie's paperwork to prove it, just to myself, but I know I'm right. I'd been looking forward to this visit since May 13.

Of course, they had nothing available Saturday, or at all June 3, but they said, "You could do a drop-off in the morning."

Well, okay. That'd be fine. And even though they don't take APPOINTMENTS at lunch, you could still go in and get your dog. So I said okay to the man. you know anyone who gets over things less than I do? You get me a thing to be obsessed with and I stick with it for life.


I DO EVERYTHING FRENETICALLY on Friday morning, and write a hasty blog post, and generally rush around like a chili fool, and slap a leash on Lottie who hates the car and drive there with her pawing and whining and climbing all over me like she's Tenzing Norgay. He was famous for pawing.

June's blog. Stay for the Mt. Everest references.

We get there, and I'm trying to hold her rather than let her on the floor because parvo, and she's wriggling with every ounce of asshole she's got in her, which by the way is a lot. Lotta asshole. Asshole? She's got a Lottie.

I wait for someone with a stupid Schnauzer to check in, and isn't it funny how you judge people by their pets? Maybe you don't. Maybe you are a magNIFicent person who loves Christmas and doesn't feel alive unless you're serving others. You probably own something awful like a Schipperke.

"Ma'am? You can't do a drop-off for a dog who hasn't had all her shots."


But you…

YOU TOLD ME TO. You TOLD me to bring her in. I KILLED my own self getting here early, which is not my strong suit, so that I can give you HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS for this whole scammy bullshit SHOT shenanigans you got going, and now you won't even TAKE MY DOG?

"You can wait. We can fit you in when we can."

"I have three deadlines today," I said, juggling the dog. Not literally, because that woulda been hilarious.

"Well, we can schedule you for next week."

Jesus. I mean, for years I've been resenting their horrid hours. I've let it go. I let it go when they sent paperwork killing Edsel and not Tallulah. I mostly did this because I love my vet. LOVE her. She really cares, and goes the extra mile. But Jesus Christ. I can't GIVE my money to you people. I have to BEG you to take my cash.

So you know what? They don't get my cash any longer.

I left without a word, which is so Evelyn Sommerfeld's signature move. I even held my head up the way she used to when she was storming out of a place. She's stormed out of the best places in Saginaw, Michigan. Department stores, doctor's offices, banks. Her own house. My 13th birthday party.

But really. Am I wrong, here?

I don't care if you think I'm wrong. [held is held high]

On the drive to home to drop off poor unvaccinated Lottie, I called a nearby vet and asked if they were open during lunch. They were. I said, "I have four pets, including an 11-week-old puppy. I need to get in as soon as I can."

They were delighted. As you can imagine. The June Gardens wing of the New Vet's Office. I saw them that very day, and they were lovely. "That's a very smart dog you've got there, and I see what you…mean about her."

I will miss my vet. Whenever I think of how I lost her, I get a pang of sadness. The stupid office hours are not her fault–she's the youngest vet there and they were instilled before her time.

I just want you to know that the whole time I've been writing this, I've barricaded Lottie and her boostered-shotted self in this room, with two huge laundry tubs, a bucket and a trash can, and I also have the back door open to the screen, and she ON HER OWN went outside and peed just now.

Probably her booster shots are what did it.

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

The one where Joon does nothing

I've realized that I left my iron and ironing board at Ned's. I am thinking about it, and I think getting new versions of both would be less awful than having to contact Ned and get them back. So. Yay. Glad I ironed that out. See what I did, there? Hope Kaye isn't steamed when she hears.

The hilarity never stops.

It's been a fairly uneventful weekend. And by "fairly" I mean not a damn thing happened this weekend. The president of our company–not that you and I own a company–invited everyone for drinks after work Friday, but I did not go, as I have a child. I feel bad coming home from work, letting her out and putting her right back in her crate again.

Then Marty Martin texted me over the weekend to say he was out having fun and wouldn't I like to join him, but I did not. Mostly I just stayed here. Watched the fireflies come out. Watched a big storm. Today it's my favorite kind of weather that there is in the world: It's pretty warm, but it's mostly overcast with a strong breeze that makes the leaves rustle. I just sat outside with my coffee to enjoy it.

Edsel and Lottie are back there chasing each other all over yonder. I don't know that I've ever seen Edsel run that hard.


The guy who cuts my mud is trying to help me with the grass. We have to cut down some lower limbs so SOME light can get in there. And he's been working to kill the damn weeds back there, too. I hate having a yard, sort of. I wish it were lovely and effortless. THEN I'd like having a yard.

Also, I have an excellent-ish system for measuring the Lot's growth. I just happened to take this photo of her next to the laundry hamper early on…


I knew you've seen it. So then 10 days later I took another one.


So in the first one, it looks like she was four dots up on the hamper. The next one, six dots.


Taken just now. Okay, is she seven dots up now? Because Jesus Christ. I've had her less than a month. Anyway, I love that I accidentally started a growth chart for her. Now whenever I look at her and think, "Am I crazy, or did she grow?" We know the answers to that are yes, and no.

Also, while I was doing nothing this weekend, my high school boyfriend Cardinal sent me a message.


"This might be the greatest app, ever," he wrote me. When we were torridly humping our way through the early '80s, we never once dreamed he'd ever say that to me. I saw the little logo on the lower-right, there, and immediately looked up MSQRD app and amused myself for, oh, you don't even need to know how long.


My favorite so far. And yes, I tried: It won't recognize animal faces. DARN YOU, MSQRD. Don't you understand I have no life currently?

How soon till we have to worry? Like, how many weekends do I isolate before we get all Intervention on June's ass?

Soeaking of my ass, I am actually leaving the house now to go work out. Cannot stand self one more minute. Then I'll shower and at 3:00, the dog trainer gets here. There's a yoga class at my gym after, which I might go to if I have energy. Otherwise I'll go back outside and watch the breeze.

Isolating. It's not all bad. Isolating. It's not for everyone.

Bah. Just when I think I can't love myself one iota more. I pull myself back in.

Alone again. Naturally.

June's stupid life · Music

It was the 3rd of June another sleepy dusty Delta day

Were you worried I'd forget it was Ode to Billie Joe day? The official holiday of Bye Bye, Pie ever since we all became obsessed with that song?


Did you listen to all the things they eat for lunch? Hello, carbs. Hi hi, another piece of pie.

I have to kind of hurry today, a thing that makes Faithful Reader Paula nervous every time I say it. She reads fast so she won't keep me. I have to go chop cotton while my brother is balin' hay.

When I'm not bizarrely living on Choctaw Ridge, Lottie has to go to the vet this morning before work. We're trying an exorcism this time.


Really, it's her shots. She's getting more shots. In her case, I feel like "shots" mean she'd chew a leather strap and actually get shot with a gun and not care.


Here she is in a rare docile moment. Note they'd pulled that bed all over yonder with their shenanigans, before this picture was taken, and chewed out the stuffing. I was busy hurling myself off the Tallahatchee Bridge.

weeee dossil

Anyway. It's been a big week at work. Two of the four things that were due–no, wait. Three of the five things that were due have been done. Today I just gotta wrap up two of them–crap. Three of the six things that were due are done.

I'll stop there before you don't wanna do much of anything. My readers caught a bored-with-June virus and they died this spring.

I need to get over that song.

I will never get over that song.

Anyway, so it's busy at work, and this one guy I work with said yesterday, "Now that we work together every day, I have this fear that I'll show up one day in your blog. 'Oh, Bob was a real asshole yesterday…'"

Does that even sound like something I'd say? He should know the only asshole is Lottie.


"I like how you've blog-named yourself 'Bob,' quite possibly the boring-est name in the history of time," I said to him while I tried to work at the same time. Really, all conversations with me this week are me slightly to extremely crabbily staring at my computer and typing while we spoke. It hasn't been pretty for anyone.

"Yeah, you're right. Don't call me Bob," said Bob. "And don't take my picture."

IMG_0077 IMG_0078 IMG_0079 IMG_0080

So I didn't. I didn't take Bob's picture. And I didn't call him Bob.

I guess the weekend is here already. That was fast. And not at all stressy. The good news is, the fireflies are here, which is my favorite thing, and last night I heard the first cicada. Oh, how I love to hear the cicadas. Although I don't really know if I'm hearing them or katydids. They sound the same to me.

I've done a terrible job hurrying up.

I'll let you know if they get the devil out of Miss Jones, over here. And also I'll alert you to her weight. When she was at the vet last time, she weighed 8.5 pounds. That was three weeks ago and I feel like she's weighing in at 150. So.

mom honistlee think she can fuk wif lotteee? honistlee? oh mom just wate.

She likes to bring in sticks and also whole branches with leaves, and also pine cones. Lottie is a pleasure of life. With an oversized Easter Island head.

Y'all remember to wipe your feet.