Family · Food and Drink · Fuck natural · June's stupid life

Party in a paper

"Did you ever take an actual copyediting class?" my boss asked me, and not in a mean way. We were talking about what we studied in college, and did it have anything to do with what we did for a living. I studied English, and at my school there were three tracks you could go on, or were they tracts? I have no idea. Anyway, teaching, business and literature.

Guess which one I picked? Hey, sensible.

To this day, I can read the shit out of a book.


Anyway, my boss, featured above–and I realize I used to have a boy boss. I have a whole 'nother boss now. THE POINT IS, she got out her copyediting book from college, from those days of yore, and it was this sort of spiral-bound thing that still talked about picas and point sizes and laying out pages, literally. With your hands. Oh, it was charming.

"You can look at it if you want to!" my boss said, and who wouldn't want to go down pica lane? I spent from 1982 to the year 2000 worrying about picas and leading and kerning and points. Then I didn't. Computers worried about it for me.

She handed this book to me, this book she's kept and treasured all this time, a book that was as pristine as a newborn fawn, which technically would be covered in goop but stay with me.

And I got lipstick on it.


A big smear, which much have been on my hand, and hey, corporate ladder. Why so elusive?

Steely Dan Silverman (good idea, y'all) just ran off with the muffin paper from my blueberry flax muffin. I mean, have fun with that. Looks like a party in a paper.

In other news, I'VE GAINED WEIGHT and I have 42 dollars. Payday is tomorrow. I was worried sick when my aunt was here that I'd run out of money running hither and yon to stores and restaurants and the like, but look! Got it just in, at $42. And the headache place gives me a $25 gas card every time I go, and yesterday I was almost on E, used the card, and got three dollars back.

So technically I have 45 dollars.

"Why am I fat?" I emailed my coworker, Austin, who does cross fit like it's fun and also stands around eating raw pepper all day. I was so annoyed, because I've been following this damn headache diet pretty well, with the eating of fish every day and the no processed foods (except yesterday I was upset at a work thing and got Pop Tarts. It was my first really bad cheat. The five potato chips the day before was bad enough), and we decided I can't (a) eat salty snacks even though they're allowed and (2) drink like a sailor.

So last night I had no wine. I was wineless. It was weird.

I went seven years with no wine at all–I didn't drink. But then I took it back up again, because I'm no quitter, and you know I go back and forth on that. Should I drink? Shouldn't I? Should I stay or should I go, now? I haven't had any negative consequences from it, but I worry. I mostly worry because of my father.

A few weeks ago, I forget what post it was, but a commenter got on my blog late at night and left three really nasty comments in a row. They were about how Lottie was better off without me, and I remember the final one read, "Did you ever notice how everyone does better when they're away from June? That includes lovers."

Now, normally when I get a nasty comment, I roll my eyes, sometimes shoot off a reply that I later regret, but mostly it hurts my feelings for maybe half and hour and then I forget about it. I've been doing this almost 10 years. I'm used to mean people popping out sometimes.

But this one was late at night, and I was here doing nothing, so I got on Typepad to see who left it. If you suddenly decide you hate me, but you've left me comments before, even if you disguise your name and email I can see who you are. That's how, years ago, I figured out this WING NUT from my old job was leaving mean messages (not the ones above). Before the mean comments, she'd written me a really


long email (we'd worked together about four weeks total) about her life and what was happening and how her dog wasn't convenient anymore, and would I go on my blog and find a home for him?

I declined.

But back to the nasty comments from a few weeks back about my pets and lovers. I got on there to see who'd left them, and it was my father.

Yeah. My father.

We haven't talked in years, because last time we did he also said mean things, and that was enough for me. But that night I was so angry that I wrote him.

He wrote back and said he was ashamed to have had anything to do with me, and that I should just kill myself.

I don't know what this behavior is. For most of my life, we were great friends. He was the person I called first when anything bad happened, as he always made me feel better in a way no one else could. Now he'd made me feel worse than anyone ever could. I'm his only child.

I blame this change of personality on substances, although I can't, of course, be sure. And I don't want to be addicted to anything and 70 and alone and telling my loved ones that they should kill themselves.

I have no idea how I went from lipstick on a copyediting book to all this, but there it is. I got deep, man. To top it off, I'm late for work.


Food and Drink · June's stupid life · My pets

I hate it when I forget a title

I'm having a smoothie. It's migraine-diet approved. It involves frozen strawberries and blueberries, yogurt and milk and flaxseed, plus also special guest star: banana.

This diet is a pain in my ass, because it involves not eating at the salad bar at the grocery store. And by "salad bar" I mean the crab rangoons over in the Asian section of the salad bar.

Yesterday we had a happy hour with my work team, and I abstained from the delicious appetizers offered, and by "abstained" I mean I had five homemade potato chips and I'M SORRY, that was the best I could do. I gave it my all. Anyway, at the end of the happy hour, it was 7:00 and I hadn't eaten. I realize that, say, Angelina Jolie would eat five potato chips and call it a day, but I did not.

I had to go to the grocery store first, because I was out of Steely Dan food and there was no way I was gonna face him empty-handed.

der be no WUT?

That picture kills me. It's SD and Lily's album cover.

Actually, speaking of SD, last night in the middle of the night he was bugging me. He woke me up a hundred times. Finally, I lifted him off the bed and tossed him out of the bedroom. "You're being too kitten-y, silver man," I said.

And right then I knew. I shoulda named him Silverman. Like he's an old Jewish cat.

Tomorrow is his next checkup at the vet, a trip that involves me stabbing a piece of his poop out the box and bringing it in this little pill bottle they gave me, which I am sincerely looking forward to. "Please do a photo essay on this, June!"

Anyway, when I take him and his steely poop in, I have to tell them that since they insisted he was a man last time, to please change his file from being Hazel to…

and here's where you come in. Which would really make the vet's very crowded. Steely Dan or Silverman? You decide.


So I went to the grocery store last night, got 86 rolls of toilet paper, kitten food, bottles of water because I'm sorry. I tried to use a Britta and I just don't like how the water tastes, and then I never drink water unless I have to, like if I'm taking a pill because Valley of the Junes, or doing Tracy Chapman because Valley of the Lesbian. But if I have those little water bottles, I'm drinking water constantly.

The point is, at this point I was starving and practically Ned, with the middle-of-the-night dinnertime, and what I'd NORMALLY do is crab rangoon, or seeing as it was too late and the "salad bar" was closed, Steak and Shake right across the parking lot from the grocery store.

But nooooo! I can't HAVE Steak and Shake, and what is the point of being alive, really?

Instead, I had to buy brown mustard, and brown sugar, and balsamic vinegar like that's just something people do all the time, and go home and brush that on m'salmon. My headache salmon. I have all this food and I keep offering to share it and everyone says no. "I have really good headache granola they gave me, you want some?" No one ever does.

Then I had to wait TEN MINUTES for it to broil. The salmon, I mean, not my headaches.

Who LIVES like this? It's an abomination.

I gotta go. I'd have written more today, but my photos from my phone won't upload and I kept messing with that all morning. My computer is acting like it's never met my iPhone. Giving it the silent treatment. Does anyone have any idea why? I plugged my phone into the wall last night, so it charged that way rather than here on the computer. Does that have anything to do with it?

P.S. Steely Dan/Silverman is drinking my smoothie. Goddammit. Remember to let me know what I should call him. Alternatively, should I just take him to the pound for The Smoothie Incident?

Current Affairs · June's stupid life

Who you voting for? BE NICE.

My stupid computer is acting wonky, like Iris's eye, and now it's 8:23 and I'm just commencing to typing.

So since I have to GO now, and THANKS, Internet, let's just ask…

Who you voting for? For president, smarty. And why?

Keep your answers civil. Anyone's mean to anyone else? Delete. I won't just delete you, I'll come to your house and punch your family dog.

Keep your answers substantiated. Any talk of anyone being a liar or a criminal or what have you had better link to a CREDIBLE, neutral news source, all two of them left in the universe. Not some site made up by some wingnut sitting at home just anywhere. The Internet has been terrible for us, newswisely. Just yesterday on Facebook, I saw a person linking to an article accusing one candidate of something awful in the headline. "This is why I'd never vote for this person," she wrote.

The whole article was about how that particular accusation was unfounded (nice click-baiting, by the way, stupid article). The poster hadn't even read the article, just cheerily went along spreading a lie.

On that happy note, okay, go!


...friend/Ned · Family · Friends · June's stupid life

Mrs. Robinson has a weekend

This weekend, I saw the most beautiful man I've ever seen, surprised Marty Martin, entertained my Aunt Mary, and saw my friend Marianne. It was a very M weekend.

So, my aunt and uncle have been here since Wednesday, and before they got here I alerted them: Kayeeee had planned a surprise for Marty's 50th for some time, like before-summer some time, so I invited them to come along with me that night, because I was for sure going. They said they'd entertain themselves, and what I like are visitors who can, in fact, do just that rather than being all, But I'm HERE! I need you to dedicate all your seconds to ME! For days at a TIME! What do you mean the rest of your life is still happening in the meanwhile?

So right after work Friday, I screamed to the inconvenience store near me to get bad wine to take to the party. I am a delight.

This kid, and I mean, I can't tell if someone's 22 or 27 anymore, but no one I should be having indecent thoughts about, got out of a shitty car.

Oh my GOD.

He had longish-hair, and it was shiny and wavy and dark. It wasn't long so much as it was just sort of messy and sexy and, yeah, long-ish. He had piercing blue eyes, which met mine through the glass of the store. He was probably excited his grandma was there to buy for him.

When he walked in, I tried not to look, but fortunately he dropped his change all over the floor, so I turned around. He had the kind of muscles that were defined but not huge and gross.

His jawline was to die for. Oh my GOD, did I mention?

And then he struck up a converSAtion with me, because he probably worried he'd have to help me to my car, I'm so doddering, and the whole time I thought, "If I just get a photo of him to send to Marty, Marty would see it and totally understand why I'd said, 'Hey, sonny, let's take this nine-dollar bottle of wine back to my pad.' and never showed up at his party.

However, I didn't, because decent person other than lusting for men in their youth, a thing men do without apology all the time so fuck it. Maybe I should go back to the convenience store every day till I see him again, be his saccharine daddy. I don't have enough money to be anyone's "sugar" anything.

I didn't take photos at the party, but the best part was that one of his friends got him a flying fuck. It's a big thing that spells out FUCK with a propeller on top and you can literally fly it around the room. Best give ever. Someone gave a flying fuck.

The next morning as soon as I got up, we all went to the farmers market, and by "we all," I mean my relatives and me, not the young hot boy and Marty and me. Which would have been quite a combination.

Mary bought vegetables like they're a thing, and she came home and MADE pasta sauce, like that's just a thing you do, using the oil from my headache study, so I could have it. She also bought bread, which I could NOT have, and of course during dinner (DELICIOUS), everyone was all, "This bread is marvelous." "Isn't this bread something?" "This bread is better than that hot boy."


In general, I took Aunt Mary all over yonder all weekend. My Uncle Stuart occasionally sat some of our trips out, and watched sports at my house with Steely Dan, who took a big shine to Stuart and slept on his lap and so on. SD is fetching, I mean both as an adjective and as a verb. You throw his little mouse and he leaps across the floor and brings it back in his teefs.


We shopped, as Aunt Mary is wont to do. There's an old white vanity I'm dying for at this vintage shop I love–called Adelade's, if you're ever here–a steal at $185. Am mulling. It could go in the second bedroom. The blue bedroom. Oh, it's so pretty.

IMG_2498 IMG_2497IMG_2489
On Sunday, we went to the Reynolds mansion, the site of much tobacco-doings, and I pointed out to Mary it's the cause of several of our relatives' deaths, but hey. Pretty gardens and shops. So.

Way back yonder when Ned and I were dating, he'd always said he wanted to meet Aunt Mary. She was forever sending me gifts and so forth, and he was curious about her after all my stories. So he came along to the Reynolds mansion with us, and to dinner after.


I think they all liked each other. They started talking about world events and politics, so I stared at foliage and so on till they were done.


Oooo! A watermelon! And a white…something gourdy!


June. Gardens. BAH!


Eventually, we got up with Marianne, who was only allowed two grapes for dinner. It's what we do to be hilarious in my family.

Ned. Defensive at dinner, since 2016. That glass of wine never left Marianne's hand.

It wasn't so much duck face as it was nightmare face.

Anyway, now today Aunt M and Uncle S are getting on a plane, and my life is back to normal, and by "back to normal" I mean Ima hang at the convenience store more than is necessary.



Family · Health · June's stupid life

The headache study

Yesterday, I drove to–oh holy shit what the hell is this?

Why. Why did the strike-thru key get depressed before I even got here? It's got the world by the tail! What's to be depressed about?

So, I'm sitting here eating a flax/blueberry muffin, which was provided to me as part of my headache study food, and I have to tell you it's absurdly delicious. They make them there on site, at the study place, in their kitchen.

Turns out this headache study is a pretty big deal.

First of all, I drove there yesterday, to UNC, which is in Chapel Hill, which is an hour away, on zero caffeine or even food, and no one has driven more out of it than I did yesterday. Plus, I have no idea how to get the intermittent wipers to work on my car, so that was a pain in my ass. And I did listen to that doctor show on Sirius radio, because I'm not getting any other channels and I've had no time to call them to make it work.

Anyway, I got to the FUCKING CLUSTER that is UNC's campus, and the FUCKING CLUSTER that is the parking structure near the hospital, and OH MY GOD if you didn't need the hospital before, you'd check yourself in with nervous exhaustion after that parking lot.

Only celebrities get nervous exhaustion, as well as dehydration.

They were ready for me right away, and they took all my blood, seriously, a lot lot lot. I tried not to think about it and grow squeamish, and then after the nurse offered to walk me over to the dental school next door to go to their coffee shop. We walked out of her office and I turned the wrong way to leave. Then we got to the coffee shop and when we left with THE WORLD'S MOST LARGE COFFEE OH MY GOD, I turned the wrong way to get back to the headache study offices.

"You seem…disoriented," the nurse said. "You've turned the wrong way both times. Are you okay?"

I assured her it wasn't the lack of food at 11:30 in the morning, or even the dearth of coffee. "This is how I am with directions."

I will always turn the wrong way. Always.

After they caffeinated me and gave me some of their flax blueberry muffins–PREPOSTEROUSLY GOOD–they had me fill out a questionnaire online and then we discussed what I do and don't eat. Then I was told what the study involved, food-wise, and what they're looking at to see if their theory is true, and I feel like this is a huge, millions-of-dollars study and I don't want to fuck it up with giving you each detail.

Suffice it to say I have to give up certain things that they think make you feel pain more than you might need to, and I have to give them up for awhile for my body to be all, Oh. Okay.

I don't have to reduce my calories, thank god, or lose weight or anything, which is good because I am dangerously close to underweight as it is.


I selected what food I wanted, from a big list, and then I had to drive over through THE CLUSTER to get to this kitchen, where they rolled out a huge cooler of stuff for me for the next few weeks. I was also given a very specific list, based on the grocery store I go to, of things I can buy that are safe.

IMG_2452 IMG_2455 IMG_2456
I have to be careful I eat my fish and not Steely Dan's kitten food.

Now, as for dining out, I'm kind of screwed. I can go out, order a salad using the salad dressing they gave me, and if I get fish (I can only get fish), I have to find out how it's been prepared to see if I can even order it. So now I'm that asshole.

I picked a fine time to be entertaining out-of-town guests. Who, by the way, I called as soon as I was back in town, and it was already 3:30 by then. I felt bad they'd had the whole day with no, you know, person they were visiting, but it turns out they went to the Civil Rights Museum, had lunch downtown, and so on. They were fine.

"I want to try that outdoor shopping center," said my aunt, and why did this not surprise me. So I screamed home, put all my new food away, realized all I'd eaten was two muffins all day, slammed some tuna (allowed) and screamed out the door.

We met at the cosmetic counter at Belk. I wonder how I thought to do that.

IMG_2457 (1)

Good GOD. Is nothing sacred?

I've lived one mile from that outdoor shopping area for eight years now (minus one year abroad), and my Aunt Mary took me to all stores I'd never been to, even once, in that shopping center. Mainly those kinds of stores that sell lots of decorative pillows and smell like potpourri that makes my throat close up. But also really really cute kitchen stores with fabulous tea kettles and all sorts of doo-dads you convince yourself you need. "Oh, a CORN silker! I so need a corn silker!"

My uncle went to the outdoor store and the bookstore. If you're married to my aunt, you learn how to deal with shopping trips.

I bought a Day of the Dead calendar for 2017, and my aunt bought everything else on the planet.


When we came back, the Needy Committee got up with my uncle, and then after we walked Edsel I asked if they wanted to go have dinner. "I can watch you, or eat a salad," I offered. I suck. But they were still full from lunch, so when it got dark, they headed home, and as they were still in my driveway leaving, my friend Marianne called.

"I see your Aunt Mary is here! When can we meet up? How about 8:00 Sunday morning?"

She was serious.

Marianne was my friend in Seattle, and when my aunt visited me there, they spent a day together when I worked. They also sat at the same table at my rehearsal dinner, and it totally looked like they were having the fun table, over there.

Anyway, later. We're meeting later Sunday. 8:00 Sunday morning. Oh my GOD.

So as soon as we hung up I screamed to the store, where I bought a microwave for 40 bucks and the allowed foods on my shopping list. I threw out my microwave years ago, because it scared Tallulah and it wasn't worth it to see her shake every time that thing was on. It dawned on me just a few days ago that I could get one now. And with this new plan, a microwave will be most handy.

I gotta go to work, but I will talk at you this weekend. We're going to the farmers market tomorrow morning. I hope my aunt doesn't think by "morning," I mean "8:00."



Family · Health · June's stupid life

Decaf June

I'm sitting here with my WATER, trying to drum up any personality with which to write you. Mostly, my personality is caffeine. Without it, you get this.

Today I drive to damn Chapel Hill, and insert some sort of joke about a church and a hill here IF I HAD COFFEE TO MAKE ME FUNNY, to get a blood draw with red crayon and to answer another shitload of questions and then to get my food for the beginnings of my headache study.

For the next five months, the study will be providing me with food, two snacks and two meals, every day. I get a whole ton of it today. Then as the months tick by, they will continue studying me. They should just put me in a car with holes on the lid, is what I say.

So today I am fasting, and my appointment's not till 11:00, and I am having NO COFFEE TILL AFTER 11:00, and that is not my friend. That is not my joint. I do not thrive under these conditions.

When they called yesterday, they told me they'd have muffins for me, which is all well and good, but I was all I WILL NEED COFFEE. They told me that right next to their building is the dental school, that inexplicably has a coffee shop in it. Maybe dental students stay up a lot. Thinkin' 'bout molars.


Anyway, yesterday my Aunt Mary and Uncle Stuart got here. I took yesterday off, which was stupid, did I already mention that? They landed and got zero bags (long story) and got to the hotel and really we didn't even see each other till after 6:00. Could have worked.

But then I couldn't have obsessed about my new car. Remember how Kaye had me get rid of Sirius, and when I tried to do that they talked me into getting it free for six months? My six months are over in October, but now that I've transferred to a different car, it's free till January. But I can't get the stations to work. I called Sirius and allegedly my subscription got transferred over to the new car, but all I hear is the preview channel, a doctor channel that is already starting to obsesses me, and some other channel that blows. Now I gotta drive to a medical appointment for an hour while listening to the doctor channel. This should go well.


I took them to Stameys–Mary and Stuart, not everyone at Sirius–which is a not-very-glamorous barbecue place, so they could try the vinegar-y barbecue here. Then we all got cobbler. Now I'm fasting, did I mention?


Also, Steely Dan. That's all.

Talk to you tomorrow, when I will be a normal person again, all hepped up on the caffeine.

Am British · I am high-maintenance · Money

June. No longer a Bug. Now more of a Mini. A chubby Mini.

When I woke up yesterday, I did not know I'd be buying a car. But there it is.

Now my life is officially a country song: the man I loved done left, m'dog died, and my VW Bug up and quit on me. I just need a train off in the distance and a jail sentence.

It didn't officially quit, but the "Check Engine" light came on, which is always slightly horrifying.

"Maybe the light itself is just broken," I told myself, because I'm good at denial. "Maybe a wire got crossed or something."

Yeah. That's the ticket. You go, June.

I had a bunch of writing to do for work, so I just took my laptop and went to the car place. I was able to finish everything, in fact, while I was there. A whole car place was quieter than the open floor plan.

Finally, they called me over. "Ma'am? It isn't good."


Oh! Just $2,753.81? Pus tax? Is that all? I have that on me.

I did what any adult would do. I texted Marvin, because he was in charge of Car Things, and he was in charge of the purchase of this car eight years ago. "Get a Mini Cooper," he said. Marvin was never one to avoid buying a car. He knows I love Mini Coopers.

I called my stepfather. Told him the deets. He asked me to never, ever say "deets." Then he said, "Sounds like maybe you should just trade it in and get another car."

When we hung up and I was talking with the car place, my mother called. "FIX THAT CAR!" she said. My mother always goes for the thrifty option. Although in this case it was hardly thrifty. I mean, my fear was if I got all these repairs, and the car is almost nine years old, won't it need expensive repairs in another year? That was my fear.

Anyway, after a whole day of obsessing about it, and asking the boys I work with because they're boys, and also asking Ned, who of course suggested I think on it for a month and a half, I did this…


I traded in my poor yellow Bug and got a yellow Mini Cooper. It's actually one of the larger Mini Coopers, so it's, like, a not-so-Mini Cooper. It's like this one woman I worked with, who dressed like Li'l Kim, only she had some curves, so the guys in the copy room called her Medium Kim. I bought Medium Kim.

I was certainly enjoying not having a car payment every month. I went one year not having one.

Turns out, to have avoided this problem, every time my dealership sent me those phony, "It's time for your 30,000 mile checkup" or whatever? I should have actually gone to those. Who knew? See, this is why I need adult supervision.

So I'm a little sick about having to have, you know, BOUGHT A CAR, but oh god, it's cute.

hullo, I'm cute!

even my dashbored is cute! meedyum kim almost do pet speek, but it car speek insted.

even my kee is cute!

That's the key! You slide that disk in and push a button. It's like the future!

Anyway, I had to clear out my regularly scheduled car, and it made me so sad. Why do we get so sad about our cars? I was in the back seat, which I hardly ever was and then I felt sad about never being in the back seat all those years, and I was pushing the seats forward to look for odds and ends that had dropped (found one Mary Kay mascara sample and this Weight Watchers key fob that looked like a sex toy) and I saw all sorts of Tallulah fur under the seats. Oh, Talu.

I also found in the back pocket of the driver's side the large book of maps Ned wasted his money buying me. Also the tire inflate-y stuff and some spare motor oil. Do you think maybe all that time Ned thought I was a lesbian? Oh, lemme get m'map, and while I change the oil, I can find out how to best drive us to the Isle of Lesbos.

I had that Bug a long time. I got it in August of 2008, when I was still married. 6a00e54f9367fb883401bb0798f0e5970d-pi

I found Tallulah in that car. Oh, wait. No I didn't. I found her in the blue Bug. Okay, but I drove Tallulah around in that car. I made out with Ned in that car. We'd meet at our old movie theater, and I'd drive him home afterward, when he lived downtown. We'd kiss in his parking lot. Which probably delighted that guard who had to work there all night.

By the time I actually made the decision and signed all the papers and so on, it was dark, so before my Aunt Mary gets here today Ima read the manual and find out where all the things are on it. Like, how do I switch over to Sirius radio, which came free? The important stuff.

Oh. Have I not mentioned my Aunt Mary is coming? She is, along with my Uncle Stuart. They'll be here through Tuesday. I took today and tomorrow off, which turned out to be stupid because their flight doesn't get in till 3:30, and really I shoulda taken off tomorrow and Friday. But there you go.

Oh, and thanks for telling me your ages and so on yesterday! I never looked to see how many comments there were total, but "a lot" seemed to fit the bill. One person was all, "I can't wait to see the results once you compile everything!"

COMPILE everything? What am I, made of time? Good gravy. Here's what we know: two of you are men. The rest of you are chicks. Amen.

I'll talk to you later. Maybe I can have Aunt Mary do an interview for my blog. I remember back when she came to visit me in Seattle, a bunch of gay guys I was friends with threw her a little party, and included an Aunt Mary handshake. Then we took her to the gay bar and then bowling, and she had a great time.

This time she gets to look at my car and meet 8,000 pets. Ain't we lucky we got 'em. Good times. Yeahhhh.



Faithful Readers · June's stupid life


Yesterday, I got interviewed about my writing, because hashtag SoFamous, and the interviewer (pfft. My coworker, Austin) asked me about the "sassy Midwestern moms" who read my blog.


"Actually, I'm big in Texas and Florida," I told him. And it's true. Whenever I do a roundup of who you are, I get a lot of readers from there, but they're big states, so.

I guess I don't think of you as moms, although you probably are, as most women in general are.

Sassy, yes, although I get a lot of people writing to me via Facebook or email saying they don't comment because they don't feel as clever as my regular commenters, and cut that out. You don't have to be a star, baby, to be in my show.

How much do you not like me right now?

Anyway, who are you? I always like finding out. Please, if you please, tell me…

Your age

Your state (not insanity or nausea. Where do you live, Shecky Greene?)

Are you female?

Do you have kids?

Are you sassy? I wonder now. Is everyone out there sassy?

Would you eat a bowl of Captain Crunch right now if it were offered to you?

I usually picture you all as a combination of Faithful Readers Paula and Sadie. Somewhere between clever and kind, and somewhere around my age. I always think of you all as my funny friend who wants the best for me, which is why it's always so shocking when some hateful snake in the grass pops up. I forget anyone can read this, even people who hope I trip into a vat of copperheads.

Instead you lay still in the grass all coiled up and hissin. But I meant. Every word I said. When I said that I love you I meant that I'd love you forever. AND I'M GONNA KEEP ON LOVIN' YOOOO. Cause it's the only thing I wanna dooooo.

Oh my god, anyway. Tell me. Age/state/sex/kids/sass/crunch.

Thank you. Oh, and P.S. These comments come to me as emails, and an email that just reads Yes, No, Yes, Probably is confusing. If you could sort of repeat the question and then give the answer. Female: yes. Kids: no. That sorta thing. Thank you!

Chicken · June's stupid life

June tells you what she ate. Riveting.

Because you know how linear I am, I'll describe my weekend for you, Friday through Sunday, and how long do you give me to screw that up?

Does it bug you, you Tidy Tess types, when I'm all over the place the way I am, or does it fascinate you, the way happy, well-adjusted people fascinate me?


I checked my photos, and this was taken Friday. It's the only photo I took Friday, and I clearly took it by accident. I think that's the ceiling at work. So, I must have accidentally taken it at work. Nothing gets past me. I saw my work ceiling, and right then I knew.

At least I think it's work ceiling. Oh my god, who cares. Let's discuss instead how my skin is sagging around my mouth and how we all need to hit my tip jar to fix that shit. I'm thinking only of all of you. Having to look at that sag award.

At lunchtime on Friday, I came home and did the thing I do to myself occasionally, which is get obsessed with an old movie in the middle of it, watch an hour of it, then have to return to work. This one starred Gregory Peck and Deborah Kerr, who always annoys me a little bit. She's always so convinced that she's smart and cute in every movie. She's always a little smug. With that goddamn smirk.

Anyway, he was F Scott Fitzgerald, and she was some woman named Sheila, which Gregory Peck kept annoyingly pronouncing as "Shilo," and I was all, "Where's Zelda?"

Zelda Fitzgerald has always fascinated me.


With her whole It Girl of the '20s thing, which is cool enough, to ending up drunk and crazy, and I wonder what was wrong with her, really. I mean, is it something she could be taking a pill for now? Did she have something half our over-posting-on-Facebook-friends have today?

It turns out in the movie, she was already sanitariumed and in Asheville, a thing I didn't even know about her till I went home and rented the whole damn movie because I wanted to know what happened next. Poor F Scott Fitzgerald was on a downward spiral, and no one cared about his writing anymore, and young people thought he was dead, and he was the victim of ageism.


This entire time I've been writing you, Edsel has rested his head on my lap, so I let him out, then he wanted back in and when he did Steely Dan wanted desperately to go out, which of course no. So now Edsel's back with his head on my lap, wriggling the rest of himself, and S Dan is crying pitifully and trying to climb my robe to let me know just what an outrage he finds this.

Rare Steely-Dan-sleeping pose.

On Saturday, I dragged some of my friends to the Greek Festival, which is more a food festival, but whatever. We got there just as the dancing was ending for two hours, which reminds me of this woman I worked with at a restaurant in my college town. She didn't go to MSU, and there was a Tommy James and the Shondells concert at MSU. She walked EIGHTY-SEVEN HOURS trying to find the venue on campus, and when she finally got there, she heard, "Mony, mony! Thank you! Goodnight!"

Thank you. Goodnight. That has always killed me.


So I missed the dancing, but I did not miss getting all the food the Greek gods had to offer. I had some Zeus-y roasted chicken, and it was well-cooked so I don't think I'll get food Poseidon-ing. I took my Nikes right over to the rice and stewed green beans, and had a little Hera the dog with a glass of Greek wine.


There was this whole NOTHER line for pastries, and it moved one Demeter per hour. I'm sorry to tell you I got five different desserts, and Eros must have made the almond crescent cookies. Mother of Zeus it was delicious.

Naturally, yesterday morning was when that headache study called to ask what I'd eaten the day before, and I was so pleased to say, "Nine hundred Greek pastries."

Dammit, it got late, and I have to go, but yesterday I saw that new Jeff Bridges movie called Hell or High Water, and I know it looks like a boy movie but it's really very good. Highly recommend.

Talk to you later,

F June Fitzgardens

Friends · June's stupid life · Neighbors of June

You wrote it you watch it

The other day, my friend Paula came to town, and I've referred to it so often now that you're probably expecting her to have a Pope hat.

Paula was my coworker in Seattle, then my friend in Seattle, then my housemate in Seattle. The only thing we didn't do was fall in love. We are both prickly people. It'd have never worked out.

She was here only for a day, so I took the day off, and she called pretty early. "I'm five minutes away."

See. I didn't know her actual itinerary. I figured she was flying in that day, and would be there middle-of-the-day-ish, and that is how I do things. I sort of wait for the information to wash over my way. I know others would have demanded the itinerary and committed it to memory, but I was perfectly happy to hang around the house till she showed up.

So she showed up. I was in a towel.

…I just spent the last 15 minutes trying to download some bad '70s porn music for you, and what's unfortunate is now my iTunes has tons of bad '70s porn on it that I will someday have to explain away when people are over.

We need to market downloadable '70s porn music.

Anyway, she showed up and was unimpressed with my sexy towel. Mostly she was in it for Edsel. She loves dogs. Even Edsel.

edz besyde self. it ant pawla time.

We went to lunch–Paula and me, not Edsel and me. I took her to the fancy pretentious corner-bar-looking place I told you about the other day, and I am pleased to inform you that I found on the menu a fried chicken and mashed potato sandwich. Except they call their sandwiches "crusts."

They call their side dishes "And"s. I am not making this up. You spend the first 20 minutes just trying to figure out what the damn menu is telling you.

Paula told me about taking her husband Roooooosenberg, ("John Roooooooosenberg, please dial extension 99.")


(A whole two of you asked me to make a video of this yesterday, after I told you the story. If you didn't read yesterday you are likely hanging yourself at this point.)

She told me about taking him to a fancy restaurant in Seattle, and it was three hours and, like, seven courses. You didn't order. They called you a few days in advance to ask if you had any food problems. Then you got there and every course was a bite, basically. It was all delicious, but it was very small, each course. And each course was served on something different, like a pallet or a shiny stone.

Jesus Christ.

Finally, the bill.


$500. For two people.

After that, we headed to a vintage shop I like, then we shopped for makeup, a thing Paula likes doing not at all, but I was literally out of foundation and could not stand my own blotchy self. Then we looked at shoes and Paula got some.

Basically we were so two white girls out on the town. We even got to-go boxes at lunch.

Then, because a fried chicken sandwich wasn't enough, we went to a dessert place and got cake.

"Thank god you don't always live here," I said, "I'd be big as a house." As if I'm the picture of slender.


We went back to my house so she could dote on Edsel more, declined my offer to take him, and then–oh! I almost forgot! We took Edsel on a constitutional, and I like how I am afraid to even type "walk" for fear he'll do his high-pitched barking thing, and as we walked, we ran into Ava!

Joan, the little girl who owns Ava now, was in her yard, and they both came over to say hello. Ava is so BIG now, and she has a whole wire-haired beard going on, and she's the only woman I know who can pull off a beard.

"So are you back in school?" I asked Joan, because whenever adults don't know what the fuck to talk to children about, they always opt for the school conversation. She confirmed she was back in school. "How is it?" I asked.

"Well," she sighed, pushing back her enormous hair. "I mean, I don't want to use hate, because that's a strong word."

I adore that kid. Then she asked the terrible "Where's Lottie" question that all the neighbors are asking. "BAD DOG," she shook her finger at Edsel.

I love that kid," said Paula, after we left, and it's true you can't help but love that kid. I wish she'd have told Paula her name so maybe THIS time I could grasp it.


I'd better go. I've given you obligatory kitten shot, and I am late for work.

Pink pawed-ly,


...friend/Ned · Food and Drink · Friends · June's stupid life

June talks. People ignore.

Yesterday, my friend Paula came to town, because of course Heart was playing somewhere in North Carolina, and you know how she follows around the band Heart.

Big Book of June Events. Page 167.

You also know (BBoJE page 796) I had a breakup anniversary dinner with Ned that I was going to tell you about and never got to, so let's discuss that henceforth. What does henceforth mean? Is it "from now on"? In that case, let me tell you about it forthwith. With Sally Forth.

"Let's eat where we had our controversial first date," said Ned, when I came up with the brilliant idea to celebrate our breakup. Tonight, I celebrate my unlove for youuuu.

(Our first date was not remotely controversial. We began talking online on January 5, 2012. I barfed in the early morning hours of January 8, 2012. Twice. Then we officially met at a hotel bar near me on January 19, 2012. The barfing had nothing to do with the relationship. I just wanted to mention it, as it had broken my 30-year streak, so.

The reason we refer to it as our controversial first date is that's a line from Say Anything, a movie I adore, and I always referred to our first date as such and eventually I rub off on people.)

We went to the fancy hotel bar, and we sat up at the bar, which incidentally is a thing I hate doing but have always done because Ned likes sitting up at the bar. To me it's…undignified, and I don't like the bartender hearing everything I say, because do you have any idea how much I say inappropriate things?

So there we were, up at the bar. I had the citrus-glazed salmon and I had to make the server ask if the citrus involved grapefruit, which is annoying of me but so is anaphylactic shock. Ned had Cornish game hen under a brick, which I never got over.

"Did they, like, beat the poor thing with a brick and then just cook him that way?"

All in all you're just another brick in a hen.

And why are they always Cornish? Can't they ever be from anywhere else? Portugese game hen.

Anyway, we were eating our food and having a fine time arguing about things, such as, do you think it's normal that by 6:30, someone would have eaten already? Ned finds it appalling that he calls me and I've already eaten then. "Everyone's eaten by 6:30," I tell him.

"No one has," he tells me, and this may be our problem. We're two people of extremes.

What say you? Not about what our problem is. About what time people eat. Please let me know so I can win. Thank you.

The POINT is, next to us at the bar was a man, there alone, probably staying at the hotel because there's a tool convention. Because this man? Was a tool.

"Hey, hey Joe, Joe!" he was the kind of man who learns the bartender's name so he can bug said bartender all night.

"Joe! Yeah. I can't quite believe you paired this aggressive red with this dish, but somehow it works. Lemme try the Hoo De Bloogen Pretention."

Our beleaguered bartender gave him more wine.

"Now THIS reminds me of my dad, who lived in Portugal, and…"

Ned and I had already exchanged looks. We may fight all the time and be a rotten couple, but there's something lovely about a person who hates all the same things you do. And we hated this guy.

He was arrogant about the wines. He changed the menu, pairing this with that till it was just so. He was condescending to our bartender, who let me tell you is really, really good at his job. He makes everyone feel like they're his friend, he's smooth, he's worked there for years, and he knows his shit. He did not need this ass munch coming in from god knows where thinking he's gonna teach this Southern bartender a thing or two.

"I'm actually kind of glad he's here," said Ned.

"Oh, me too. We'll always remember this night," I said. "I'll bet you anything he thinks of himself as a 'foodie.'"

When I was on dating sites (I'm not anymore. I give up), anyone who used the word "foodie" got swept left. Also, on their list of things they can't do without, anyone who said, "My kids" or "God." I'm just not gonna have anything in common with someone who likes their kids.

I hate to Gladys Kravitz, but several sirens are going by and stopping just close enough that I can hear them stop, but just far enough that I can't see what's going on. I already went to my porch like a prairie dog and saw the ZZ Top serial killer guy across the street looking for drama, as well. I always figured that guy was off because he kept so much to himself, plus ZZ Top beard, but when I had a yard sale once, he came over and was just a delight. I mean, sure, the only time he gets out of the house is for his daily walk to the convenience store for a 40, but everyone needs refreshments.

The other day I went to that convenience store for some wine, and I made some sort of joke like "Dinner is served" or whatever, and the man who runs the store looked deep into my eyes. He's a handsome older man from India. I say this so you can hear his accent when I tell you that he said, "Sometimes we need to drink. Not everyone understands."

I left there feeling quite worried about my convenience store guy.

Well hell, I droned on and never got to My Day With Paula, and now I will forever be one day behind on telling you everything. As for My Dinner With Ned, we got dessert, which was a dark chocolate mousse, and then we went home to our separate abodes, and that was that. I mean, dinner was delicious, and I had four good years with Ned. Well. Probably three and a half good years with Ned. The other six months involved fighting with Ned. So.

I'll tell you about my day with Paula tomorrow, but I will mention just one thing. We all–Paula, her now-husband, and I–used to work together back in the '90s, and when we did, I was the receptionist, he was the accountant and Paula was the administrative something. Bitch, I think. Admin Bitch.

Anyway, when I took breaks, this old lady who was probably my age now would take over the controls. The phone controls. She inevitably would screw it up. To be fair, there were like 400 lines to handle or something.

The point is, she'd often get on the speaker by accident when all she wanted to do was answer the phone. So you'd hear the overhead beep and then her saying, "Smith Accounting Fir–oh…" and then the speaker would go off.

Also, when she'd page Paula's husband, she'd page him in this long, sort of whiny old lady voice that likely sounds like my voice now. The point is, though the years, I've done the impression of her paging him whenever I see him.

Well. Paula and her husband have this newfangled thing, where whenever there's movement at her front or back door, her phone jangles. Then she can hit a button and not only SEE her door, she can speak and the person at the door will hear her.

We heard her husband leave for work yesterday, and then hours later her phone jangled again.

"Did Rosenberg just get home?!" I asked. She showed me her phone, and there he was, returning from his big day of whatever it is he does. Something number-y.

I hit "Talk."

"JOHN ROSENBERG! PLEASE DIAL EXTENTION 99!" I warbled, loving myself.

He never looked up from putting his key in the door.

"Hello, June," he said, with the enthusiasm of a thousand suns. You know how enthusiastic a thousand suns are.

Anyway, that's all. I will keep droning at you tomorrow.

Your favorite foodie,


...friend/Ned · I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life

Post-Botox Edition

Woke up, got dressed, got Botox, went to the pharmacy for more migraine drugs and cough medicine, mailed my Stitch Fix rejects and came home and washed the floors and changed the litterboxes and threw in laundry and cleaned my shower grout.


I have today off, and I woke up with a migraine, because always. That is how migraines work–they come at you AFTER the stress, once you're winding down. And yesterday I was in my hiding place all day, stressing my gills off trying to get this big thing done before 5:00. Because I had a Very Important Appointment at 5:15.


While I adore the "barber" that my coworker Austin and I share I hadn't had her cut my locks for awhile, and I was hankering for a Diva cut, and let's face it. All my haircuts are diva cuts. But there's a particular style of cutting that you can go get trained in, that caters to curly people, and they cut it dry and do all sorts of cockamamie things.

I had been seeing a person certified in Diva cuts, but she got mad at me because I called her salon once, and it turns out I was calling her cell phone and she was at the beach. How was I supposed to know that? Nevertheless, she penciled me in and then the day of the appointment I had to work late so I called to reschedule and she just never called me back.

Look. If you don't want to answer your work phone at the beach, make other arrangements. Set up a voicemail saying "I will be gone this week but leave a message." I mean, geez Louise, lady. And I'd shown up as scheduled and on time the other three appointments I'd had, and paid the HUNDRED DOLLARS she charged for the cut, which was absurd.

Anyway. I had to find a new Diva cutter.

Fortunately, I found one in the shopping center that I am at 200 times a week. It has my grocery store, my pharmacy, and really all my needs are met there. Well. Some of my needs will never be fulfilled.

The point is, convenient. And she charged half what old Beachy did.

So yay.

But here's the thing.

I was trying to make conversation with her, asking her where she learned to do the cuts and how is it different from regular-people haircuts, and she said, "You know who could really use this cut, is black people."

She did the thing. She did the thing where she whispered the word "black."

Whenever people do this, my assumption is when they usually refer to black people, they are saying something bad, so they lower their voice.

Then she said, "They don't even know they need this cut."


I mean, it wasn't blatant racism. It wasn't in-your-face offensive, but it didn't sit right with me. So now I have to decide if I'm being a hair-trigger liberal person with zero perspective, or if I'm right and she's a racist asshole. Because if she is, I can't go back there. Which is a pity because I like my hair. But if Hitler gave wonderful massages, I'd like to think you wouldn't go back there because, you know, Hitler.

So let me know your thoughts. Paula, my Seattle friend, is on her way here for the day. Yes, of course Heart is playing somewhere in North Carolina. Anyway, I took the day off so we could scissor.

I know I still have to tell you about my breakup anniversary dinner with Ned, and I will, but I will leave you with the fact that we had dark-chocolate mousse for dessert.

Hell, yeah. Breakups are da bomb.





Health · I am high-maintenance · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · My pets


Here is what Edsel has done every morning of his damn life: He bounds out of bed, tears down the hall, and bursts out the back door. I open the big back door quickly and he uses his head to push the screen open. He hasn't got time to wait for me to open the screen. There's no time for those shenanigans. For Edsel is a Professional, Advanced-Degreed Barker, and barking must commence within 47 seconds of him being awake.

His initial order of business is that he must bark at the sky. It needs barking at.

Anyway, this morning, for the first time in his life, I had the extra bolt on the back door, AND the hook lock on the screen door, in case Sean I Guess returned to finish the job. Nothing deters a crazed murderer than a hook lock on a screen.

First, Edsel rammed his head into the back door. "Hang on, Edsel," I said, unbolting the big door. Marvin put that bolt on there the day we moved in. Do you recall how everywhere we ever moved, he'd spend all his time doing things like adding flood lights to the back yard and knives to pop out of the windows and so on, so that the hundreds of people dying to do us harm could not do so? I always thought it was a clever way to make me, for example, unpack all the pans myself.

Anyway, suddenly I'm grateful to paranoid Marvin. If any of our 50 floodlights come on due to motion in the side or back yard, Ima die of fear. Anyway, Edsel. So, he rammed his head into the back door while I unbolted it.

Then he rammed his head into the locked screen. Look, I never said he was an intellectual.

I don't even know what he did, there, at the screen part, but somehow he hurt himself. "Arr arr arr arr!" he cried, all high-pitched.

Oh my god, I felt terrible. I looked at his long snouty, and his pawses, and there was no visible damage. He was champing at the BIT to get outside. But once we went out and barked at the sky and peed, I held my arms out. "Come back, Edsel." He did, and I still didn't find anything that he hurt. But his high-pitched girly cries were so terrible.


And right then I knew. I still love stupid Edsel. Even though I may not ever FORGIVE him for eating my puppy, who I miss ALL THE TIME, I do still love this ridik dog.


The whole time I've been writing you, Steely Dan has been running around this desk, wreaking havoc. I don't even know how he got UP here. Do you enjoy my mousepad, which is a folder from my gym? Because gym rat. I note SDan is eating my Fitbit.

Kittens are a delight.

Also, in other news, incidentally, I went to the doctor yesterday about my incessant coughing that's been going on for four weeks, and it turns out I have allergies and GERD. I already knew I had GERD, but it's exacerbating my allergies.

I really wanted some rare, tropical coughing disease that they wouldn't be able to figure out how I had it. I wanted them to scream "MEDIC," even though I was already being seen by a medic, and then I wanted to be whipped off to a specialty hospital in France, but instead they said, "Take Allegra. Take Prilosec." And then I went back to work.


I was at least convinced, at this point, that I had pneumonia or something. I mean, I'm coughing like I'm Hillary Clinton, over here. I'm being helped to the car and I'm all wobbly. But no. Allergies. GERD.


Also, who put the molybdenum in my hair when I got on that scale? Holy cats.

Speaking of my calorie intake, WHICH IS SO MINIMAL OH MY GOD, I just put bread in the broiler, forgetting I have a toaster. I'm taking my Hello Kitty coffeemaker to work today. Yay!

I'd better go. I have a lot of work at work today, and I'll be back in my hiding space again all day. I take a beanbag chair from the fitness room, and go off in this little corner where no one can see me but the sun is shining in, and I get, like, 8 hours worth of work done in three, because no one's all, "How are YOU? How's THINGS?"

The thing is, you never have to ask me that because this. Blog. Here. Whole life. Splayed out for you. No need to talk to me, ever.

I guess people want to have converSAtions. Pfft.



P.S. Ned and I broke up a year ago today. We're going to have dinner to celebrate. Sanely, June.

...friend/Ned · Faithful Readers · Food and Drink · I am berserk · June's stupid life

Our Lady of Perpetual Calendars

I'm having some Greek honey yogurt with some almonds, and every time I eat Greek yogurt I feel like I'm eating just a teensy piece of Faithful Greek Reader Fay.

Look how this blog has affected my life.

When we last left off, what had I done? …Oh, walked. Right. Fucking walked. I was Walker, Texas Ranger. I was Karen Walker.


Well, Saturday night, I decided to try a new restaurant. The woman who sits next to me, The Alex Who Sits Next To Me (TAWSNTM) is very hep. You can imagine how it delights her to be next to my cool self. "No, June, I …haven't read the Twilight books."

Anyway, she likes this one restaurant over by the one college, so I tried it. Dragged a date. An interminable date. At this point, I'm like Mary Richards on the Mary Tyler Moore Show. If you're 70, you'll recall the show, and she always had sort of mannequin good-looking men come get her for dates, then you'd never see them again.

I wonder what Mary Richards did wrong? Like, did she ghost on everyone after the way I do? Was she still hung up on her fiance? Remember she had a fiance, a doctor, and that's how that whole show started? We were supposed to be excited for her that she did that, and that love was all around with Murray Slaughter and a studio apartment with Phyllis as your landlord, but the whole time I was all, You scored a DOCTOR, you maroon.

My mother is shooing herself with a gun from her Phyllis Schlafly Your Daughter Didn't Turn Out Liberated Ha Ha End It Now gun collection.

Oh my god anyway. So, it looks just like a little corner bar, the restaurant does. It's a cool old building, with original glass double doors on the front. And it IS just a tiny corner bar, technically, but everything in there is adorbs.

Yes, I said adorbs.

They have mismatched bar stools ("Honey, honey, honey, you don't like my BAR STOOLS?") that are all vintage. There'll be a green tufted backed one next to a sunny orange backless. Oh, it's marvelous.

Sixties curtains.

And delicious pretentious food.

They infuse their alcohol right there, so I had a margarita made with tequila infused with strawberry and jalapeno. I also had brisket and smashed red potato and salted caramel bread pudding.

I wanted to keep eating after I was wafer-thin-mint full. I wanted to barf so I could order something else and see how THAT tasted. It was so good I can't even begin to tell you, although it looks like I have. I LOVE that place. I will go to that place all the time. And no, I will not tell you the name because I don't want it to get like Hops. Local people will know what I mean. Fucking Hops. "Oh, it's a 26-hour wait."

Then yesterday I dragged Ned to Sully. That was his punishment for making me walk to the folk festival: He had to go to a mainstream movie. And it was even at the shitty basic theater, where they, like, fly in their popcorn rather than make it on site. Ned hates that place.

I always get the nachos with the orange cheese that they pump out of something, perhaps the bowels of hell, and Ned always has 48 fits that I eat that stuff. Yesterday the theater has added a charming thing: They tell you how many calories are in their snacks.

Turns out? My nacho chips and "cheese"? 800 calories!!!

Who knew?

Ned got a small bag of popcorn and a bottle of water. Calories? 350. Fuck Ned.

It was a good movie, although we were both seriously annoyed at the 20 minutes of previews. TWENTY MINUTES. In which I managed to pretty much finish my 800 calories. But I liked the movie, because who doesn't like Tom Hanks, and also I wish to never fly again oh my god.

Do you know what I'd be good at? Air traffic control. Welcome to my cool head and composed nature.

Speaking of work, after that I had some freelance stuff to do for this place I used to work at back in the '90s. They still use me for their proofreading, and I had to proof a magnetic calendar that they send out to all their clients. Not that it has charisma, but rather that it sticks to your file cabinet or whatever.

On the back is a perpetual calendar, and I was your Lady of Perpetual Calendars yesterday, making sure when they said 1910 was the same calendar as 2007, it was true.

It was fun to proofread again. It's so soothing. You look up and three hours have passed and all you've thought of is, "Was 1997 a leap year?"

Anyway, I was done with that, and was just sitting down to watch a Fred Astaire movie when my doorbell rang. It was already dark, and I wasn't expecting anyone. For the first time in his goddamn life, Edsel didn't bark.

"Who is it?" I asked.

Pause. "It's me." A male voice.

I deadbolted the door. "Uh-uh, you don't say 'It's me' like that. Who is this?" The voice sounded like a teenager, but still.

'It's…Sean, I guess," he said.

"I have a mean dog, I can't answer the door," I said, and the kid left.

I mean, I guess he was a kid. Guess who forgot she had a peephole?

Then after I got scared. Did you ever listen to that awful 911 tape where the woman calls 911 (hence that I called it a 911 tape) and says a strange man had just come to her door claiming to be looking for someone "and I'm an old woman, I live alone," she says BEFORE HER PHONE CLUNKS AND SHE STARTS SCREAMING?

That is what I thought of all night. I called Ned, because calling the police to say, "Someone came to my door" seemed over the top.

"You wanna stay over here?" Ned asked. So then I had the choice between staying here and letting Sean I Guess break in and kill me, or go to Ned's and try not to have sex with him, when I already resisted once and COME ON, god. Because Ned and I fought like demons when we were a couple, but then we were the world's most sexually compatible people. Sex was what we did best. It was our joint.

We were award-winning. We got the Screwlitzer.

We won the Nobel Piece Price.

We got the Good Housekeeping Squeal of Approval.

So, stay here and get murdered, or go to Ned's and have a thousand tiny deaths?

I stayed here. With Mute Fang. Who, fortunately, at least spooned me all night and for once I was glad to grab his clawed feet of Lottie gouging and wrap them closer to me. And here I am, still alive. Maybe Sean I Guess was casing the joint and he'll be back tonight.

I did bring a sledgehammer and put it next to my bed. It's like Peter Gabriel spent the night.

So that's my weekend, and I guess I'd better shower and hope that Sean I Guess doesn't Norman Bates me in there.







Okay, I'll stop

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · At Two With Nature · Death · Hair · I am a pleasure of life · I am high-maintenance · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · My pets

It’s a pretty good crowd for a Saturday

Yes, I'm posting on Saturday. Hello! {hello hello hello hello} Echo! {echo echo echo echo}

I don't know why I bother. But hello, one and a half people who are homebound for whatever reason.

I guess now that it's half an hour away, I can tell you that I am supposed to be in New York right now, for a friend's surprise 50th, and I'm so sad I'm not there. His wife invited me, and I wanted to bring our mutual friend Sandy to doubly surprise him, but I just couldn't afford boarding Edsel, flying there, staying in a NEW YORK HOTEL HELLO EXPENSIVE, and so on. I tried. It makes me sad. I'd love to see his face when he gets surprised today. It'd probably be the same face he got back in college when he learned everyone didn't have a maid.

So, crap.


Yesterday at work, we got surprised as well, except I knew about it cause I planned it. But an account we work on at work has a dog model, a 176-pound dog model named Moose, and I wrote a story about Moose for said account, and got to know Moose's owner, who is local. He offered to bring Moose to the office, and I knew that would be a big hit, but I had no idea how big of a hit.


Fucking EVERYONE got up to meet Moose. And there's really no way to show, to scale, how dang big that dog is. On his hind legs, he's 5'10". And he's just so docile. It was like Snufalupagus came in to work. "hullo. moowse heer. sigh." He is the very definition of laid back.


I listened to people ask his owner the same questions over and over again. How much does he eat? How old is he, again? Where does he sleep? (Not that much, actually, 7 and a half, and on the bed, natch.)

Oh my god, we all loved us the Moose.


Petite. That's what he was. A mere slip of a thing.


My mere slip of a thing seems to be doing better since his shots took everything out of him. And Iris seems to be more resigned to her little-brother fate, although she's still giving one last hiss before she walks out the door. If she were in a band, she'd paint her face black and white and join Hiss.

If she were a holiday, she'd be Hissmass.

She's thinking of running for off-hiss.

You get my drift.

She puts on a blue conservative hissmass suit and a floppy tie, because she's a hissmass woman.

I need to get over it.

If she drank beer, she'd drink it out of a growler.

Dear June: We hate you. Love, Readers.


When I got home last night, it was an exciting mail day. I got my new phone cover, which makes me officially Single White Female-ing Faithful Reader Beverly. She got one first. Is my point. If she were Iris, she'd say, "Firsssssst."

Don't you just loves it, though? Oh my god, how bad do you want to be me right now?

Don't answer that.


I also got my first Stitch Fix box. It's this place? Where nobody dares to go? You needed the world to know. They are in Xanadu.


Oh my god.

So, at work, I edit the company newsletter, because powerful, and when I was planning September's issue, I emailed the newsletter staff with "September newsletter: Fashion Edition" just to be funny.

See, most fashion and beauty magazines have an extra-thick edition in September, ya lesbian, full of the latest styles and trends and so on. This came in real handy during my coming-up years in Saginaw. "Oooo, I'd better tear this open, read it cover to cover, then head to the mall for more Sasson jeans and Candies."

Anyway, I wrote that as a joke, but then decided it'd be fun to have a fashion edition of the company newsletter, so I went around randomly interviewing and photographing my coworkers. Two very cute women said they got their outfits that day from Stitch Fix.

So, you go on the site, and the first person to not just Google fucking it gets stitches after I visit your abode, and tell them a bit about yourself (Dear Stitch Fix: I am old and fat) and they send you clothes you can keep or return.

Right? I know!


Oh, you're welcome.


I got this pretty gold necklace, and BRF Alex always wears gold necklaces, and she's fashionable, and now I wonder if I should be like her, except old and fat. It's like how my cousin Katie orders things from Athleta and once she puts them on, she's all, "Oh, look at the fat girl in athletic garb."

Anyway. I took pictures, and none of these look flattering in the pictures but they really are cute in real life. As real as this life is, what with my denial that I'm a homosexual man and all.


I love this little top, and I think maybe if I didn't wear it with blue cargo pants and a black bra…


Polka-dotted shirt, also cute if I had anything form-fitting on with it and didn't look like one of those clowns they're finding in the woods.

I like the idea of this dress, but it looks like someone threw up flowers on it.

steelee dan waring his gray sweater again.

That placemat never looks filthy till I photograph it, and then it always looks like I'm feeding animals in a Third World country or something. Note that SD is generally eating all the time. Also, what do you think of canned food for kittens? I hear it's healthier. I've never done it but I keep reading it's preferable.

After I tried on all my ensembles, Ned wanted to go to the goddamn folk festival. "We can walk from my house," said Ned, like that'd be fun.

Last year, we went to the folk festival, had a terrible time, and broke up the next morning. Not because we had a terrible time, but because, well, you know sort of all the reasons we broke up. Anyway, it's exactly a year later and Ned was hoping we could redo it or something.

One way to put me in a sparkling mood was to make me walk in the 90-degree heat to TIBET and back, only so we could stand in a crowd and then walk home again.

But I fucking did it. Oh my god, I was cranky. My feet were scraping in my shoes, even though Ned insisted I wear tennis shoes, and it was hot, and THAT WALK WAS INTERMINABLE. Also, I am a good sport. Is the thing. I go along to get along. That's me.


When we finally got downtown, a hundred and ninety seven years after we took off from Ned's house of torment and bad ideas, we stopped in to see Kit at her store.

"Remember last week, when I was cheerful and drunk?" I asked her. My hair had gotten sweaty and it was 75 feet wide. When I told her we'd walked from Ned's (she lives in Ned's neighborhood), she was appalled for me, and that made everything worthwhile.

"You should get drunk again," she advised.

Ned made me go to THREE FUCKING STAGES to see THREE FUCKING BANDS ("If we weren't already broken up, I'd have broken up with him over this," I groused to Kit.), and at the third stage, we noted that's where we'd been last year when we were having a rotten time. In our 2016 version of Going to the Folk Festival, Ned had found us drinks, and we were sitting on the grass playing "Would You" with all the people walking by. News flash: Ned and I mostly "would" with anyone under 30. Also, I totally "Would You'd" both men AND woman, but Ned stayed steadfastly pervy about women.

"Last year we hated each other, and this year we're picking out people to fuck," mused Ned.

"It's like we're growing," I said, looking for a first aid tent so they could amputate my legs after that walk, kind of like that poor guy in Gone With the Wind.


We noted we were right near the ironically named Goodyear sign, having just had a shit-ass year. Neither of us have met anyone else, and apparently Ned is still trying to kill me for it.


On the equally interminable walk back, we stopped at the neighborhood bar that still counts for Ned as a neighborhood bar, and for me as a "bar from my old neighborhood."

Ned paid. Damn straight he did.

So that's my weekend. Ned wants to walk back to the fucking festival today, and let me tell you who's Hans Solo today. Let me tell you who will never walk alone, except he's walking alone today. Let me tell you who said "folk you" to Ned.

Talk to you later.



Health · June doesn't know any ugly people · June's stupid life

Shaved her legs and then he was a she

I think I've told you that for six months, I'm part of a headache study. I'm studying to get better at my headaches.


Last month, I schlepped over to Chapel Hill to walk up a mountain to go to church, and BAH, again, apparently on fire today. The point is, they asked me a bunch of questions, and told me I had to keep a headache diary online.

Then every time I try to just GO ABOUT MY LIFE, I get a reminder text. "Gentle Reminder: Be sure to fill out your diary for Wednesday!"

Oh, shut up. Remind this.

Anyway, I've done it pretty well–you can see a whole chart of your diary entries, and I've missed two days since August 1, so suck it. I'm amazing. Maybe I'm amazed at the way I love me all the time.

Oh, and of course, I've had this ridiculous dearth of migraines. Wait. Is a dearth a lot or none? I've had almost no migraines. I mean, if you were a normal person, you'd say, Wow, I had a few really terrible headaches since August 1, but for me, usually I go through 9 migraine pills a month, and since June 4, when I last filled my prescription, I have gone through 8 pills. That has never happened, ever. Naturally.

But I have had at least four or five charming migraines, to make my diary more spicy, and what happens next is I go there to the church on the mountain and get five months' worth of food. The study is seeing if diet affects my migraines.

With my luck, it'll cause me to have more.

The diet is healthy, but I'm on one of three plans and it's a blind study, so I have to shut my eyes for five months. But I'm told there will be a lot of fish, so I will be up there with my coworker Griff on the all fish all the time idea.

Further reports as developments warrant.

Anyway, part of the study is they call you at random to ask about your nutrition before you get on the study, a thing I had forgotten, and you want to talk about humiliating.

"Hello, June, this is Hilda Granthembottom, and I'm part of the June Sucks study we're doing here at Temple Mound."

Do you know anyone else who can take a benign name like Chapel Hill and turn it into something ludicrous? 'Tis why I'm here.

Also, Granthembottom.

So, this woman wanted to know everything I ate on Tuesday, and mother of god.

"So, June, to recap, you had two brown-sugar-cinnamon Pop Tarts, 36 ounces of black coffee, a cheeseburger from Hardees and a small Coke because you're watching your figure, and for dinner, a small bag of Baked Lays and three glasses of chardonnay."


"Had I known you were gonna CALL, I'd have cleaned up my act a little," I fibbed.

"That's why we don't schedule calls," she said.

Madre de Dios.

Plus, I lied. I also had fries at Hardees, but I was too ashamed.

So, fish. Ima be a mermaid soon.

Speaking of mermaids, we need to discuss mermen.

IMG_2086 IMG_2091

Yesterday, I took Hazel to the vet for her does-she-have-worms, does-she-have-feline-leukemia kinds of tests. The vet pronounced her clear of everything, and I had no idea how much I was worried about all that till she told me. A street cat can have everything.

She said she thinks Hazel is two and a half months old, giving her a birth date of July 11, which is Ned's mom's birthday, and also my old boyfriend Steve's. Three cancers in this house now: Edsel, Hazel, me. Very water sign-y here. (Iris is a Libra–she'll be 5 on September 23. Lily is a Taurus, I think. I can never remember her birthday. Hulk just shot himself clean in the liver.)

The vet also told me she's a boy. Not the vet. The cat. She told me Hazel is a boy.

Oh, crap.

I mean, I kind of wanted him to be a boy, because Edsel needs another man around the house. Let me rephrase. Edsel needs a man around the house, and besides, I've always been a boy-cat person. They're friendlier. I mean, I got lucky with Iris and Lily. Not literally, so don't call the police. I just mean they're awfully nice cats.

Anyway, on the way back to work, I was inspired to name Hazel Steely Dan, and you're welcome. I texted, I text, the gay boys who'd found her to tell them they were right.

They'd never heard of Steely Dan.

Sigh. Hey, 19.

My boss's boss, C, had told me I should bring the kitten in for the afternoon, so I did. IMG_2093 IMG_2096 IMG_2097
Everyone loves a kitten.

I took Steely Dan to my boss's boss's office, and she said, "Just leave him here for awhile. I'll shut the door." So I went off to do work things while Steely Dan–and I have no idea if Ima call him by his whole name, or if he'll become Steely or Dan or what–played with C and accepted visitors as word got around that there was a kitten at work.

"Steely Dan just peed on C's floor," my tenant, former, came over to tell me.

Good climbing the corporate ladder.

But listen to this! He jumped in her recycle bin! He knew he should go in a litterbox of sorts, and not just on the floor! What a good kitty!

The papers for my demotion will be complete later today.


Eventually, ennui set in from the shots he got, and maybe ennui isn't the word I need, here, but I kind of wanted to say "ennui." He spent the whole night in his now-way-too-girly bed, and I was worried sick even though the vet told me he'd be lethargic. The cat, not the vet.

gud. eyeriss hope he dye.


Poor little Steely Dan, who weighs 2.5 pounds by the way, got up today and walked around a little, but he's resting again, and my poor gray baby kitten head. It's weird to see him alight. I am not kidding when I say I've never really seen him sleep before. He'll get on my lap and purr and be…relaxed, but sleep? I didn't think he was into that.

It's jarring. I want his assy self back.

I gotta go. It's morning, and Pop Tarts are calling.



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

Go ahead, use me to smear your Ten-O-Six Lotion on yourself.

Today I had to shower with cotton-scented hand soap. I smell like a big cotton ball. Mmmmmm.

Yesterday I managed to use the last sliver of real soap till it literally washed away, and I told myself, "Don't forget to get soap today."

Then guess what. GUESS.

And I hate to be the one to point out the emperor has no clothes, but cotton doesn't smell like anything. So what do I really smell like right now? Laundry? I kind of smell like laundry. That's hot. "I was attracted to her when she walked by smelling of a towel. Right then, I knew."

Hey, it was a busy night last night. I got up with Mr. French and I also had the Real Housewives reunion show, which is always the best hour of your life, ever. Always. Every time.


Anyway, do y'all remember Mr. French? Here he is, above, going back into the bar to pay up. Mr. French is always insistent on paying, even though we're just friends. I think it's very gentlemanly. I had, last night, gotten there before him and had already BOUGHT my drink, but at the end of the evening he very charmingly said, "I want to buy your drink," thinking I had a tab going or something, but I knew I was just gonna have the one, because temperate in all things.

Oh my god, that reminds me. Don't let me forget to tell you about my nutrition call. Mother of god.


But anyway, Mr. French. I met him in December, and we went on one or two dates before seguing into friends. I like hanging out with Monsieur French, though, because he's smart and interesting. The last time I saw him, it was spring, and we were at the same restaurant, but he was sitting outside, and with a woman. I didn't want to go out and say hello in case it made things weird with whomever he was with.


The time I saw him before that is a great story. We'd had a snowstorm here, pretty significant for the South, but all my Michigan friends would have laughed at it. But because there aren't salt trucks or whatever, we were all snowed in for days.

I remember the first day of the storm, waking up to snow just everywhere, work being canceled, and an email from a new person on OK Cupid. That person was Mr. Write. Because we were snowed in at our houses, we ended up Mr. Writing all day long, and into the night, and we were having a fantastic time. The next day, we tried to meet, but Mr. Write was quite literally snowed in–his car was stuck in the driveway. So he said, "Let's try to meet later once the snow's melted."

In the meantime, I had managed to get out of my driveway, although the roads were scary as blue potatoes. I just made that phrase up, and let's do what we can to get it sweeping the nation, shall we?

Anyway, since I was from Michigan and Mr. French is from Canada, we tossed our heads at the blue potato snow and said, "Let's meet at a bar!" So in the middle of, like, a Friday or something, we met at this dive bar and decided it'd be hilarious to drink outside in the snow and ice. With the sun on us, it wasn't bad.

So there we were, sitting outside in the snow at a dive bar, when this hot man walked by carrying groceries. I stopped talking to look at him, as he'd come to a complete standstill in the road, tilting his head at me. He had on a hat and sunglasses, but I still thought, "Is that…?"

It was Mr. Write! I'd never met him yet, but I knew, and he knew it was me because he saw a yellow Bug and hair.

So really that ended up being more a story about Mr. Write, but I was with Mr. French, so there you go.

The point is, it'd pretty much been all of 2016 that we hadn't seen each other, so I was all, How was your year, and he told me, and then I told him about mine, and godDAMMIT this has been a stupid fucking year. Any year your dog dies is gonna suck, but even beyond that. Jesus.

Anyway, we had a good time, and made plans to get together again, and in fact I told him he should meet Ned. Ned doesn't have any local men friends–all of his friends are back in Raleigh. I think he'd like Mr. French, and I never even kissed Mr. F, so really I think it'd be okay.

Speaking of Ned, he is the kind of person who constantly has an ache or a pain. Really. Constantly. One goes away and he gets another. So at his cookout, he was complaining about his neck, and I was very smug. Oh, you shoulda seen me.

"Ned, your problem is, you're unhappy with your life, and instead of facing your demons, you distract yourself, and as a result, all your pain comes out physically."

"Distract myself? What do you mean?" he smiled, hoisting his beer.

"Yeah, I have no idea what I mean," I said, hoisting a kitten.

Anyway, he called me yesterday during the workday. He went to the doctor, and it turns out he has a broken neck.


Don't you hate it when you're wrong like that? Ohhhh I'd been soooooo smug. I had allll the answers. I was Dear Bitchy Abby.

Do you like how my first thought was about how I was wrong, and not MOTHER OF GOD, YOUR NECK IS BROKEN?

Oh, it's just a small fracture. He'll get over it. You know how if I had a broken neck, I'd have made zero big deal about it. It wouldn't be June's broken neck blog posts, volumes 1–46 or anything.

Biking. He thinks it happened when he was biking. And that's why I stay inside.

I had better go, as I've rambled at you for a thousand words now, but tomorrow. Don't let me forget to tell you about my nutrition call tomorrow.

Guess what I will forget to do tomorrow.

Cottoning to that,


I am berserk · June's stupid life

June and the lesbian kitten

Here's my problem. (I act like I have only the one.) I get bored, then I set up too much stuff in my life, then I get overwhelmed at the chaos and cut stuff out, and then I get bored again.

What the Sam Hill is wrong with me?

My job, since it changed, is overwhelming, and lately I've been working in my little hiding place in the building because OH MY GOD with people talking to me all day. Yesterday I was trying to work at my desk, and I had on my headphones, which is the universal sign for "Do not disturb" in open-floor-plan speak.

A hand waved between me and my computer screen.

It was Griff. We don't even work on the same account anymore. "What." I asked him, in my approachable way, removing my headphones resentfully.

"You know what I hate? I hate when women fish through their bags all day. I'm in line at the grocery store, and some woman is up there, 'Oh, where's my wallet?'"

Griff's funeral will be held Thursday at 2:00.

Anyway, so work is busy, and a lot of people have busy jobs so that shouldn't be such a big deal, but then also, why the fuck do I know so many people? Like, why not have two or three good friends, and cut out the riffraff? I know no one feels sorry for me, but it's a lot of upkeep, you know what I'm saying? This person is IMing me. This person is texting me. This person is emailing me, and I can't keep up with all that, plus my job, my blog comments, my Pie on the Face page, my 14 pets, my whole house-owning, plus my hobbies like sewing and church.

I think I'm more easily overwhelmed than most people. Do you feel easily overwhelmed, or is it just me?

I always get like this when I'm busy at work.

The whole time I had Lottie I felt way too overwhelmed. I mean, a puppy is a LOT. Now, a kitten? To me, that's easy. Kittens are very set it and forget it. Especially this one. She spends 21 hours a day batting her toys around. This morning, the alarm went off, and she dashed in, knocked my reading glasses off the table, and sideways spider kitty-d her way out the door. kittee see you wen she see you.

The point of my story is, the whole time Lottie was here, which was three months, I felt inches from weeping. It was too much. And then as soon as she was gone and I was over the crushing heartbreak of her absence, I thought, Well, what can I do next?

Chaos. I seem to thrive on and abhor it. What IS that? Do you do that?

Speaking of chaos, I tried to photograph the mercury that is Hazel last night.

IMG_2061 IMG_2054
Oh my god. Lu say forget. I took 21 pictures of her (I just counted) and they were all like this.


Here's one where she flopped down for half a second. She was probably thinking, "What can I do next?" the way I do.

I've been putting her food dish up unless the door is closed to her room, because four times now Edsel has gone in and eaten her kitten food, and I hope his ass gets big as a house. I hope no amount of Tracy Anderson will burn it off, and I'd like to know who wished that on me, you dick. Anyway, this morning I put a huge mess of food in her dish, thinking she could have it all day while I shut her in the room, and when I returned to her room 10 minutes later, she'd eaten the entire thing.

Which I guess is good, because she is NOT HAVING the being shut in the room thing, anyway. She'd rather be out where Iris can hiss at her.

Oh, also, I made a vet appointment for her, and of course I lied to the vet. I didn't want her to judge me. You can. But I didn't want her to. And it wasn't even the vet, it was the vet assistant answering person.

"Hi. I have to make an appointment for my new kitten," I said. "I'm June Gardens. I've been in there with Lottie, Edsel, Lily and Iris." Already I sounded crazy.

"Okay. How old would you say your kitty is?"

"Six weeks."

"Okay, six weeks. That's too young for flea meds, and too young for shots."

(It is? She's already had both.)

"Are you keeping her from the other cats?" the woman asked.

"Oh, yes," I said, as I watched her play on the floor while Iris and Lily glowered at her.

"Aren't my, um, other cats vaccinated against whatever she might have wrong anyway?" I asked.

"No," the vet person said. "They're indoor cats, so you only had them vaccinated against indoor cat issues."

See. This is why you don't lie to your vet. I didn't want to HEAR it from her that I let the cats outside. The problem with people who love animals is the people part. There's nothing more judge-y than other animal people. Probably humans who have human children are worse, but fortunately I don't have to deal with that.

A few years ago, I wrote a Purple Clover about Lily, about how she was 100% an indoor cat, and you know she really was back then, and how one day she just let herself out the screen door, as best I could guess, and had disappeared.

Some woman left a comment about what a terrible person I was. "I always remember to lock the screen door so my kitties can't get out," she smugged, and right when she called her cats her "kitties," I knew everything I needed, although I'd already been tipped off when she felt the need to leave a comment judging me as it was.

She went on about the heroic measures she takes to keep all her "kitties" safe, and all I could do was hope one day her husband unlocked the triple-locked door and escaped himself. Run, husband! Be free!

I sound way crabbier today than I actually feel.

Anyway, Hazel goes to the vet tomorrow, and I find out for sure that she's a girl, even though I'm 90% sure I'm right. She's awfully tomboy-ish, though, and I may have a little lesbian on my hands. My "kitty" is a lesbian.

Crap. I'd better go. Ima be late for work, and thank god I've injected some chaos into my day.



...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · My pets

June gets drunk, spends night with Ned, acquires kitten. Other than that, quiet weekend.

On Friday, we got out of work at 3:00, which is always exciting. 

IMG_1895 IMG_1894
A big crap ton of us, and I think it was Jackie Kennedy who invented the term "crap ton," got together after work to say goodbye to one of our coworkers, who has the nerve to be moving back to New York, like it's exciting there or something. I know this picture makes it look like seven, seven of us made up that crap ton, but this was early on, and eventually I think there were around 30 of us.

Which may explain why I got drunk. Oh, I was laughing and talking and having a time with all my coworkers who don't even like me, and who had to put up with me anyway. Some dude in the line tried to pick me up, because hashtag still got it, and I never paid for one drink all night, and boom. Next thing you know, it's five hours later.

I drank for five hours.

Ned lives within walking distance of this place, so I called him, thinking 8 p.m. is just about when he gets home, seeing as he's a fancy president and works till all hours, then goes to the gym like it's fun. Turns out I was right. He was home. And he walked right over and got me, which is good because at that point it was just the person moving to New York, and me. All the normal, sober people had gone home after beginning to drink at 3:00.

Once we got in my car and Ned was trying to drive a stick, so to speak, I remembered Kit's anniversary.

"IT'S KIT'S ANNIVERSARY!" I bellowed, I'm sure charmingly and not at all drunkenly. "WE HAVE TO GO THERE!" So we drove to my house and let poor Edsel out, who didn't even want to go because he doesn't want to go outside any more since the day I banished him out there for eating Lottie, but Ned went with him and I have no idea what I did. Shots? Who knows?


And then we headed to Kit's store. It's been 15 years she's been having her cool store, called Design Archives, and if you're ever in town you should totally go. I sat on a stack of vintage Playboys and read them loudly while Ned looked around self-consciously. "LOOK AT SHARON STONE'S NIPS!" I announced.

"I have champagne!" Kit came over to see us, and probably to gently lead me away from nips.

"CHAMPAGNE!" I screeched.

I was having a much-needed glass of alcohol when Faithful Reader Happy appeared, with her entire family. "June?" she said. "HAPPY!!!" I shrieked, and pretty much everyone in Greensboro likes me a lot. Because pleasant? I talked Happy's whole family into drinking Kit's champagne. Dear Kit: You're welcome.

"Maybe you should, you know, eat something, June," said Ned, who took me to a restaurant, where thank god I opted for water.

Somehow, it was decided I should stay at Ned's, maybe because he wanted to be alert should I Jimi Hendrix myself in the night, and when we got to his house, I was all LET'S DRINK WINE AND SIT ON YOUR PORCH!

I forgot to mention we were having cool weather–there was a big storm brewing, and it was cool and blowy and stormy, and we were on the second floor of the restaurant and could see the trees bending to and fro. I wanted to drunkenly enjoy them from Ned's porch.

I have no idea why god saw fit to let me wake up feeling perfectly well the next day, but I really did. And I swear to you no Ned hanky-pank went on. I'm not saying that the next morning Ned didn't suggest we while away the hours with some hank or some pank. But I said no. Strong drunk black woman.

Saturday is something of a tired blur for me, except for the part where no one can figure out Lily.


When did she turn into adventure cat? I realize this photo is like a Bigfoot sighting, all blurry, but I took it through the screen when I saw her up there. A) Why is she going outside, and 5) How'd she even get on that roof, with all her…bulk?

Here's my regularly scheduled Lily.

Anyway. So as you know, I've been looking at that kitty, Lantana, at PetSmart. I was at PetSmart for a change this weekend, and I saw a woman with a cat carrier walking out of the store, and I am not even making this up. "I'm sorry to bother you. Is that Lantana?" I asked her.

"It is!" she said, and right then is when I realized, she was the volunteer who had me hold Lantana last week. "Oh, it's you!" she said, like we were in the Pina Colada song. Turns out the volunteer was similarly charmed by Lantana, and what are the chances I'd be in there the minute she was adopting that charming kitten?


So that is how I ended up trolling for kittens on Craigslist, and I KNOW I should go to the shelter, but it's never open when I'm free, and here was a perfectly good werewolf-y kitten, in my color, right there for the taking. I texted the boys who had her, and we had a lovely exchange wherein I got her for $50 because savvy, and I asked if we could meet in public.

"Oh, I'd prefer that," the kid I was talking to said. "Well, I'm a woman and not crazy," I lied.

"Well, I'm gay, so you're extra safe," he said back, and I tried not to think of Buffalo Bill and his pit.

Yesterday morning, I met them in a grocery store parking lot, with my 50 dollars like I was doing a drug deal, and drove home with Hazel. They had told me this kitty was a boy, but I took one quick look, saw his vagina, and right then I knew.

Asking two gay guys to ID a vagina is asking a lot.

Here's what I have to say about Hazel.

Spit. Fire. Holy shit.

I had planned to contain her in the back room till I could get her to the vet, but she was having NONE of that. [meow meow meow meow!] she said at the door when I shut it. Remember when I got Roger, and he squeezed under the door to get to where the action was?

So I decided to let each animal in one at a time to see how it went. Here's what I predicted: Lily would act like nothing had changed in her life, Iris would write her congressman, and Edsel would fall in love.

Yes yes and yes.

deer god. pleese make kittee luff edzul. ay men

Do you know who does not love Edsel? She doesn't just hiss. She SPITS and LUNGES and then she hisses. Edsel is horrified, but he keeps trying. He looks at her longingly from a snout-safe distance now.

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Lily not only acted like she goes way back with Hazel, to their sorority days, she also plays with her. There was zero period of adjustment. Lily is a cat of mystery, seriously.

Iris wants me dead, she wants you dead, she wants the whole fucking country to fucking fuck off and be dead. She can't see exactly where Hazel is, so she's just been hissing into the room at random, to let the room know, EVERYTHING CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF.

Hazel managed to jump all the way up to the TV, just to be spit-firey, by the way. I spend a lot of time horrifiedly waiting for what's next. Iris and her knife juggling skills. Iris biting the top off her paw grenade. Iris gets a lasso and drags that kitty in for lunch.

hoo care?

So that's been my weekend. Further kitty reports as developments warrant.