Beauty products · June's stupid life · Weblogs

Does my new blog design go with these shoes?

I make the same kind of joke every time I get a new design, don't I? And actually, this one isn't done yet; we're still gonna update a few things here and there. Pretty, though, right?

Remember when it was time to renew my yearly fee for stupid Typepad, and I asked if anyone could afford to chip in, please do? Well, not only did you chip in for that, but there was some left over (!!!) and I knew technically I shouldn't really just spend it willy-nilly, because your donations were for this site to remain up. So I thought, well, they've been looking at this same damn design nonstop for two years, so I got hold of Sadie Olive who always does my stuff (see her tag on the lower left) and I worked with her to get a new look going.

Also I paid my lawn guy. I figured readers would love to know my lawn work was paid for. Anyway, thanks for helping a sister out with keeping this site going, the last blog on earth. I still like writing it, and as long as 50 of you still like reading it, we'll keep going.


Sadly, though, you have to keep looking at more photos that didn't make the 10-year video cut. Last night Ned came over and I made him watch what I have so far and I kept saying, "That's not staying. That's getting switched around" till finally he shot a woman in Greensboro, just to watch her die.

Photo on 12-23-15 at 6.46 PM #5

Also on cutting-room floor. Look at poor beleaguered Edsel just waiting for his mom to stop gazing at self and love him. It must be like having Diana Ross as a mom. An impoverished Diana Ross.

Oh, god, speaking of impoverished, today is payday thank GOD. In my fridge are condiments, because safe flavoring, and expired tortillas. You may be wondering Why doesn't June just toss the tortillas but I felt bad for the lonely condiments.

So now I have dough and can toss the tortillas, which is good because tonight two of the Alexes are coming over to help me decorate for Christmas. Wedding Alex's new husband is putting the kibosh on some of her girlier Xmas decorations (she's the one who had the pink sparkly reindeer that I went so berserk over that she finally just gave them to me, along with a restraining order), so she's letting me have them, because single, single, single.

With a man friend. But still.

The other Alex and I were on the phone and she was kvetching about how busy she is with social engagements and feels obligated to attend just everything and as a result she can't give of herself fully anywhere because she's stretched so thin, so I said, "You wanna come help us decorate?" and she was all, "Yeah!"

So. I'm looking forward to her thin personality.


Yer OUTTA here, picture. Really, I was so busy putting in pictures of you guys and friends and THE ENDLESS PETS that I thought finally at the end, hunh. I should probably put up pictures of my own self, and then I got obsessed with putting in one each from each year, which in the end did not happen because there were zero 2006 photos of me from my blog. So. But I got close to representin' each year. This one above is clearly before my time abroad, because I still had fruit crate images that you all now have, and there is a guitar so it's pre-2011, and this hair tells me most likely 2008.

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I have a giant collection of these, the at-a-restaurant-with-Ned shots. I don't even like going to restaurants that much. Ned does. So there you have it.

Oh, I meant to tell you that Lottie's people texted me yesterday to tell me she now officially weighs 50 pounds, which is more than Eds or Lu ever weighed. She's 8 months old. He said she's pretty tall, too. Oh, my Lottie. I wonder if he'd like to give her back now that she outweighs Edsel? We could have a fight to the finish.

'''''''''''''''''''' '' '

Steely Dan just walked across the keyboard so he could leap across the desk and onto the big cat's food dishes, and it looks like Woodstock just said something.

off fishlee a dik

I'd better go, but before I do I have one other important piece of news to impart to you. You know how I am forever bemoaning my mascara, and how my neeeeeeeeeds aren't being met by said mascara? If my mascara had a love language, I'd need it to be the lengthening language. For all the goddamn hair I have, of course I also have to have sparse lashes.

Anyway, the other day I dashed to work late as always and didn't put on mascara. I had a meeting with the president of the company–oh, no big deal, that, JUST THE PRESIDENT IS ALL–and I felt incomplete.

"Does anyone have any mascara?" I screeched to the room at large, and I know pinkeye and all that, but the president of the company, dude. And there I was, his hollow-eyed minion.

"I have a sample," said this woman WHOM I'VE NEVER EVEN SPOKEN TO. We have a lot of new people. "Really?!" I asked, delighted. What're the chances someone would have a whole pinkeye-free sample of exactly what you needed right then? It's like the day in 2003 I said to Marvin, "What I wouldn't give for some salt and vinegar Pringles," a thing I never even craved, and he marched into the kitchen and brought out a new canister of them. He'd gotten some that day.

Best moment ever.

The point is, I loves it. I LOVES IT. It's called Arbonne It's a Long Stoey Mascara Mascara It's a Long Story, which, yeah, I didn't make up that name. But it's perfect for me.

Although I sort of pride myself on telling a brief story. Okay, yes, I never stick to the topic, but once the story is out there I don't do that goddamn, "Was it Tuesday, or was it…hunh. It musta been Thursday because I…" crap.

Anyway, mascara needs, met. Till the sample runs out.

I will catch you on von flipeth sideth.


...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · June's stupid life · My pets

June kvetches. How many posts start with that?

"That Santa is out in front of The Friendly Center," announced Ned on the phone. The Friendly Center is this outdoor shopping place that's probably been around since the '50s, and they keep adding elaborate stores like Apple and Anthropologie. Every Christmas, they put the same big waving Santa statue out that Ned remembers from his childhood.

"Well, it's that time of year, Ned. Are you headed for The Friendly Center?" There's a good diamond store there, local, that sells vintage rings.

Oh, June, give it up.

"Yes. I'm going to buy pants. My buttons are just barely hanging on for dear life. Bless their hearts," said Ned. Since that whole broken neck/bulging disk thing, he's been advised not to exercise, a thing that normally would not stop him but he literally cannot do a damn thing with that pain he has. He hates it, and thinks he's Enormous Flores, which is a whole nother story.

(A guy I knew was good friends with the receptionist at work, and they hated this other woman named Delores Flores. The receptionist used to page her really fast and would secretly page her as Enormous Flores. The only one who really heard it was my bitchy guy friend.)

"You know, one way you could manage your weight during this nonworkout-y time is to limit your drinking," I smugged, biting into my mashed potatoes.

"Yeah, so anyway…" said Ned.

"Ned, your poor liver. The Phantom of the Opera's organ got less of a workout than that organ of yours."

"My organ's looking at the Phantom's organ saying, 'I WISH I had it that easy,'" said Ned. You can always get him to warn to a ludicrous idea. "My liver is waiting for a James Brown cape; it doesn't know if it can go on."

We hung up soon after, and Ned no doubt went out to eat and ordered beer with dinner.

In the meantime, I spent 39445949393 hours making my 10-year video. I asked what else I can do, but dear god, can't I just dedicate the next 14 nights to this video as I know I will and say, hey, I've blogged for 10 years. The end? Can't I just do that? I'm the last woman standing, for god's sake. Everyone else has left the building.

Here are some photos that likely won't make the cut. If I change my mind and you see them in this infernal video on December 15, please to ignore please.

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Maybe for my 10-year anniversary I can catch the scent of all your bosoms. Of your exquisite perfume. I love how he has a specific perfume, and remind me to never buy any Clinique Elixir.

Sadly, that was one of the more tame messages I got. How come you never met anyone when you were broken up from Ned, Jooon?

The Non-Needy Committee.

Today is my favorite kind of a day–windy, dramatically windy, and warm. I can't wait to go outside and watch everything, likely get hit in the face with a tree.

Oh, also, if when you're watching my damn 10-year video, you note I didn't include EVERY GODDAMN ANIMAL, you can sue me. Lu, Eds, Lily, Iris, def all will be in there. Roger, Anderson, Violet, Lottie, Ava, Stanley, Ruby, Winston, Henry? I don't know that they can all make the cut, okay?

Okay, of course Lottie will. And Hen. Henry never took a bad picture. (If you just got here, Henry was my cat in 2009–lost him in the divorce. Marvin still has him and he's a magnificent cat.)


First picture I ever took of him, and enough said.

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I miss Henry. I should totally ask for him back.

Oh, hell, I better go. I'm glad we had this talk. Remind me to tell you how my boss's boss said I wasn't funny. The one who gave me the eagle calendar, WHICH I WAS HILARIOUS ABOUT.

From my scented bosom,


...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Busy busy busy busy. Thank heavens for Angie's List. · I am high-maintenance · June's stupid life · My pets

Coffee break

"How rich was Mr. Howell, do you think?" I asked Ned. He was helping me do things, miserable things, around the house.

"Really rich," said Ned. "In the opening credits, they called him The Millionaire. …Of course, if he was that rich, why wasn't he banging Ginger instead of Mrs. Howell?"

"Exactly," I said. "He was probably a single-digit millionaire." Like I even make six figures, much less nine. Wait. When you make a million dollars, how many figures is that? Seven? Nine? Why am I poor, do you think?

Ned pointed out that being a single-digit millionaire in 1967 was pretty impressive. I still say, if he was that wealthy, wouldn't he have been on his own yacht and not some cheesy rental tour boat that even Marianne could afford? You don't see Kanye on a whale watch. He takes the Bootay or whatever he's inevitably named his yacht and gone out looking for them all alone. With his posse.

I totally need a posse. Except I hate people. Hey, you guys are my posse! Congratulations. Let's go look at whales.

IMG_3685 IMG_3687
Anyway. Ned and I did a ton of stuff to the house this weekend. He fixed the door on my dilapidated shed. That shed was put up by Roman slaves. "As soon as we get this pyramid done, let's head on over to June's. Put up her shed."

We put the glass shelf back in my vanity, above, but then we couldn't put it back together–long story. We tried to fix the GODDAMN stupid teensy halogen track lights in my hallway, and what am I, a gay guy in 1987? They burnt out during my year abroad and I kept dreading replacing them, and it turns out that was for good reason. Three of the five now work, which is better than I was doing, but the two that they attached to the attic door won't light up, so I probably have faulty wiring and will burn to a crisp one night.

Dear Mom: You're welcome. Be sure to tune in to my last post where Ned mentions the word "fucking" about 407 times.

Also, I scraped and sanded and painted my windowsill, and now I await my blinds. I took down the awful broken plastic blinds so I could paint, and I have sheets over the window till they get here, the blinds, I mean. It's a nice look, if I were a crack addict.

Finally, at the end of all that choring, choring so I can make money for m'crack, I noticed the damn smoke alarm in the living room was open and battery-less. I got a battery, stood on the couch to put it in, and when I wasn't close enough, I stepped onto the coffee table,

and fell off.

The whole thing tilted, which I refuse to attribute to my girth, because of all the crack I've been enjoying. And speaking of crack, I toppled to the floor, along with the picture frame, Ned's phone, two pieces of midcentury ceramic I had on that table, along with a cute little square image of Michigan my cousin Katie sent me that I just love.

BOOM! BOOMBOOM! Tinkle! Everything went, and that was just my bones.

"Are you okay?!" Ned came running from the other room. And the thing was, I didn't know. You know how when that stuff happens, you aren't sure at first. You're so busy being stunned that the pain hasn't shot you through the heart and you're to blame yet.

I tried not to panic, and sat on the couch waiting for the agony to come. Ned put everything away and didn't say, "God, JUNE" when he noted his phone was amongst the wreckage.

Of all the things on the table, nothing got broken. There's a disturbing blue streak on the floor that came from the paint of the table.

On my person, I bruised several places but other than that I'm fine. Of course, I keep thinking of Natasha Richardson, but she was dead by now, right? That was like four hours for her.

"You're really lucky you didn't break anything," he said. "A woman your age…" he began, but by then I'd cocked the shotgun.

Ned went right out and got me a stepladder. My stepladder never even knew its real mom.

Okay, I'd better go to work now and exaggerate my injuries, as there is no point in getting hurt unless you can limp around dramatically and play a fife like you're in the Revolutionary War. I wonder if Ned would let me borrow his neck brace. Oh, yeah, and is anyone gonna point out that Ned did all that shit for me with his broken neck? If you can't do chores with a broken back, at least you can polish the fenders.

Needy Commiteee cannot take this drama, mom.

...friend/Ned · My Bible and Wall Street obsessions

If you do not enjoy the F word, this is not the post for you


How long do you allow between coats of paint? I'm painting my windowsill today, and please to enjoy my fine photo of the windowsill. It's like you're right here with me. If you had glaucoma.

I just finished it at about 5 to 4:00, but I want to do a second coat. So I write you while I wait.

I just looked it up. It'll be dry to the touch in an hour, and I should wait four hours for a second coat.

FOUR HOURS!?!? What Ima do for FOUR HOURS?

Maybe I'll blog for four fours. How'd you like that? When would you give up on me, do you think? It's June's four-hour blog extravaganza! Yay! Says no one.

I guess one thing I can do is show you all the photos on my desktop, tell you what you're looking at. Yay! Says no one.


On THANKSgiving, as they say it here, I went to Ned's mom's house. She lives locally now, and her little house is as cute as a button, and she's decorated it all nice, and it gets tons of light and then I went home and everything looked shabby at my house. Hence the paint. I spent all yesterday binging Gilmore Girls and taping and scraping and sanding. Oh Sanding baby! Someday! When high-yiy school is done.

You never want to be in my head.

Anyway, behold Ned and his mom, above. I love that picture. Ned had three plates of food, and dessert, and then all night I had to hear how he didn't feel up to snuff. Which I knew was gonna happen when he gleefully went back for that third helping of everything. But what can you do? It's probably how he feels when we pass the Baby Animal Emporium.


God, don't we look happy. Thank god we got back together. You can't buy this kind of contentment. Or blur. Really, everything is going scary well, which is not like us, because we live on coffee and fights but we decided to try a different route. Not the coffee part. You'll be prying that from my cold GERD-ridden gullet. That made zero sense. Anyway, let's see what other happy photos I have.


Ned's mom had a few Xmas decorations up, and she offered to play Christmas music after dinner, and Ned said, "Yeah, okay, let me just get a screwdriver so I can drive it into my eardrums." Ned. Huge fan of Christmas. 'UGE.


Thanksgiving night, we went to his house and played some Monopoly. I own the millennial Monopoly, so the money is vellum and they have new pieces, like airplanes and cell phones and all those super-modern things from the aughts. I was the Lab. Ned was the bike.


You learn a lot about a person from playing Monopoly. Namely, that Ned is a Park-Place-&-Boardwalk-buying, hotel-purchasing, pay-rent-in-singles-to-be-a-dick ass tong. He'll also not tell you if he's landed on your property and you're, say, checking Facebook.

What a dick ass. Oh my god. He is ruthless. He bought ALL FOUR railroads, then railroaded me on the rent. When I landed on goddamn Boardwalk where he had a goddamn flea-ridden hotel that Lindsay Lohan wouldn't even stay at, I lost, and perhaps had a poor attitude about it.

What an ass tong.

yuu a bitz, ant joon.

eet yer hed off, ant joon.

Yesterday, after I'd binged and watched and scraped and so on, I took a shower and headed to this bar in my old neighborhood, where Ned and I enjoyed Karaoke night and made fun of young people. Incidentally, you should never try to Karaoke a Queen song. You just shouldn't.


I don't know why this picture's on here, but I love it so bad. "Oh, that's a food face," said Ned. "Lu didn't get that look unless there was food. She saved her most earnest expressions for that."

I miss that dog more every day.

The only other thing I did this weekend besides waiting for paint to dry is I asked Ned these questions from a meme going around. I don't know the point of this meme other than you get to talk about yourself even more, and what's more appealing to me than that?

The meme is a series of Qs you ask your person about yourself, with the idea that the answers will be rib-ticklingly hilarious, and my experience was it was not that hilarious and more filled with the word "fuck." Here we are, below. These are the questions I asked Ned about myself.

Q: What is one thing I say a lot?
Ned: "I stabbed it with my steely knife but I just couldn't kill the beast."

Q: What makes me happy?
Ned: Fucking. Also, fucking. And sex. And coffee.

Q: What is something that makes me sad?
Ned: When we don't have sex.

Q: What's my favorite thing to do?
Ned: Fucking. (Honestly, it's like he just learned the word.)

Q: How tall am I?
Ned: 5'6". Do they ask how much you weigh? Because you seem to keep that a great mystery.

Q: What do I like to do when you're not around?
Ned: Look at Facebook, blog, work.

Q: What makes you proud of me?
Ned: Your writing. I really like your writing.

Q: What's my favorite food?
Ned: Fucking. And mashed potatoes.

Q: What's my favorite restaurant?
Ned: Filling Station. Which is weird because they don't even have mashed potatoes.

Q: If I could go anywhere, where would I go?
Ned: Seattle. Paris. To LA to see your friends.

Q: Could you live without me?
Ned: Not very happily.

Q: How do I annoy you?
Ned: You don't.

Q: If I called you to say I was in trouble, who would I most likely be with?
Ned: Me.

So there it is. My blog about me, reporting on questions I asked someone about me. I should change my name to Mimi.


This is the last photo on my desktop, and I took this the other night before I left for Ned's to play Monopoly/discover the depths of Ned's dicklihood. Oh my god, no one ever give him property. Please never let him turn into a real estate mogul. He turns into a fuck dick.

I've written for 45 minutes, and I guess maybe I'll eat something now and wait for the paint to dry some more. Hasn't this been, like, longest weekend ever? It's fantastic.

I'll write later, with fascinating updates on the state of my windowsill. Sash over soon!



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

Cat on a cold tile roof

(June blogs = you have something to read = avoid your families)


Last weekend, I was helping Ned change his sheets because I …sprinted over there. You know I like to do an early-morning long run on weekends. Actually, we live exactly two miles from each other, so, "long run." Yeah.

So I …ran over there, and before I made an elaborate breakfast for him, involving so many cookings, I helped him make his bed.

Dear Ned: You really scored, getting a chubby girlfriend who sleeps in and doesn't cook. But she puts out!


Anyway, I tucked the sheets under the mattress, even though I usually don't do so very much at home. Binds m'feet. But I know Ned is tidy, so I helped a sister out.


"Oh, wait, wait, wait," said Ned, coming over to my side. He removed the sheets from under the mattress…

…and tucked them back in with hospital corners.

Hospital corners.

All Ned's shirts face the same way in his closet, and the pants are grouped together on one side. Every morning he eats a fiber cereal after he cleans the cat litter box. The two are not related. What I'm saying to you is Ned is something of a tidy Tess. He's got a routine. Things are just so with him.

So you can imagine how delighted he was when my kitten somehow got on the roof in the dead of night last night.

Last night after work, I was bemoaning to myself the state of my blinds.




That last one I blame on Steely Dan. The cat condo is at that window, and my theory is the bird feeder outside drove him berserk, and he climbed the blinds, and boom.

The other two are just because when I left here for my year abroad, I took my curtains, I think, and the tenants put up the world's least-expensive plastic blinds, that in the last two years have snapped and been chawed on by various baby animals.

So first, I killed myself searching for my old curtains. I was never crazy about those curtains, but broke-ish, so I looked. I searched everywhere, even the attic, and found in a closet only one of the curtains–I'm certain it was never hung. I remember getting home from curtain-shopping and realizing I'd bought one too many and I saved it as a spare. So I schlepped back up to the attic to search for a curtain rod, and? Nothing.

What the hell did I do with everything during my year abroad? You should see my attic. It's got about 20 empty boxes, Christmas stuff, and a dog crate. That's it. That thing was packed to the rafters three years ago.

Screen Shot 2016-11-24 at 9.00.08 AM

Finally, I went online and see that JC Pennedy (I had a friend who used to say it like that, now I can't not say it like that) was having a huge sale on scalloped blinds, which between you and me is what I wanted all along. So I measured each window, then called my mother.

"How should I measure the window?" I asked her. "From frame to frame, or just measure the metal thingy that's already there for the cheap blinds?"

"Get Ned to do it," she said.

"Pam. I'm 51 years old. I have a house and a job. I think I can measure a window," I said.

"Call Ned," said mom.

Hmph. So I called Ned and told him all about m'blinds and m'rod and m'attic and m'measurements that I'd taken (by my hard numbers, my windows are 34 and 7/8 inches wide) and told him in no way did he need to come over and back me up.

"I'm going to come over and back you up," said Ned, and no one thinks I have one damn brain in my head. "I'll go home first and get my real measuring tape. You have that Barbie one, right?"

"It's a TRACY ANDERSON measuring tape, and it's perfectly fine. Just because it's pink doesn't mean it isn't real." Oh, I was huffy at everyone.

"I could just bring my dick over, use that as measurement. We know it's exactly a foot long."

And see. It was right there. My snotty response was right there. I was gonna say something about 34 7/8 inches and how his "12 inches" was really two or three or some other hilariously small number, but then I was all, okay, 34 7/8 inches is three feet? Two feet? So if his dick were three inches, he'd have to…"

"You're trying to think of a snappy comeback but you can't do the math, can you?" asked Ned.


Ned eventually got here, measured my window (I WAS RIGHT), and then we heard a meow.

"Mew!" said the meower, and right then I knew, it was Steely Dan, and it was coming from above us.

"Mew!" I mean, unless it was god, and god is a cat, and we just never thought about that possibility before. I mean, the Egyptians did. But.

"Oh my god, is Steely Dan in the attic?" I asked, rushing for the steps.

Every time I go up there, he acts extremely interested, but he acts extremely interested in everything. I dashed up the steps as fast as my arthritis knees would allow, and commenced to calling him shrilly. "KITTY KITTY KITTY?! STEELY DAN! KITTY!?"


It was still above us. And right then we knew.

"He's on the roof," said Ned.

He must have been in the attic, then found some vent or something that leads to the roof. What the hell with that cat?

I mean, and here's the thing. Not only is Ned methodical and careful and IN A MILLION YEARS would not accidentally let his cat in the attic and then onto the roof, he also PANICS at anything cat-related. He's had one cat his whole life, a cat he'd donate a kidney to, so any cat drama I bring throws him into a tizzy.

"OH MY GOD, THERE HE IS!" Ned bellowed from the cold outdoors. I was still pulling on a jacket. Hey, no need for everyone to freeze to death. One four-month-old kittensicle was going to be tragic enough.

"Yep. There he is. Oh, darn," I said. This is my 417th cat. I knew it would be okay. Ned did not share my emotion. At this point, he was hoisting himself onto a dining room chair, balanced precariously on the dirt, holding his arms out like SD was just gonna leap into them like he was Baby and Ned was Patrick Swayze at the Catskills.

Oh, Ned held sticks with canned food at the end. He rustled leaf-filled branches. He spoke sweetly. And the whole time, SD was all, "I on ruwf! It so fukkin cool up heer, unk Nedz!

"Steely see evryteeng! Steely da Lizard King!"

And that is when I got Peg involved, Peg who has a ladder. I have a ladder, too, and it's…at Ned's.


The three of us got the damn ladder out of what I assume is Peg's copperhead-infested dark leafy garage, and we propped that thing up and Steely Dan came down without a fuss.

So, Steelee Dan get of roof. hoo care? …we go back up today?

I guess this year I am grateful for fussbudget-y Ned, his foot-long dick, his math skillz and real measuring tape, and his ability to spend an hour in the cold on a wobbly chair, saving a kitten who gets on his nerves.


...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Neighbors of June

June runs late. Paula feels tense.

I have no idea how I ran so late today, but here it is.


I was gonna tell you all about Ned letting me watch the Real Housewives reunion at his house last night, seeing as I heroically got rid of cable. That was probably a mistake. Still, Ima see if I can do it. You have no idea how many times in an evening someone can ask you, "Which one is Vicki, again?"

I'll say it loud and I'll say it proud: Vicki Gunvalson is a terrible person. I knew that earlier this year when her daughter couldn't breathe, and they were taking her to the ER, and Vicki insisted the cameras keep rolling. You could SEE her daughter saying, "No" when she came out the house and saw the cameras, but it didn't matter.

But now, not only is Vicki calling the show her show (hello, delusional), but now she's spreading horrible–horrible!!–rumors about the other women and she has no remorse. Oh my god, she's really a dreadful human.

Also, I was gonna tell you that since I deleted my Byebyepie Gmail account, I no longer have any of the You Tube veeeedeos I made through the years, here, for this blog. Sucks. I discovered that as I was making a 10-year-anniversary video for this blog. Goddammit.

But now it's 8:15 and my hair is wet and I have no makeup on so I must go. I must bounce. Don't you hate people who say that?

Talk amongst yourselves. Tell me what to blog about tomorrow. I'll rap with you then. Because apparently it's 1973 in here.

P.S. My neighbor a block or two down shot himself dead in the back yard yesterday afternoon. It kind of haunts to think someone felt that bad just a few blocks away.

Aging ungracefully · Chicken · I hate everything · June's stupid life

A 51-year-old woman complains bitterly about cat food. Which is not at all sad.

One of you was nice enough to send me a few cases of canned kitten food, which when I think about it musta cost a pretty penny and thank you again. The good news is that Steely Dan just loves it, and his fur is so gleamy and soft.


Jesus. I thought I'd better get a visual aid, like you don't know what Steely Dan looks like, and just try to get a photo of Mr. Gleamy and Soft when he's in kitten mode, which is all the time. So that was 20 minutes of my day, and this was the best I could get. I deeply enjoy the cat/dog fur on my robe. How'd that happen, do you think?


The rest of the photos all looked like this.

Anyway. So I've been floomping a small can in his dish every day, and the other times I feed him I give him dry kitten food. "I wonder how much I should actually be feeding him?" I wondered, squinting at the size-two font on the back of the can. Seriously, who can read that?

Apparently, I can, because it read: Up to 20 weeks, give kitten as much as he will eat.

Twenty weeks. Why don't you go fuck yourself. Twenty weeks. That's precisely like people saying their baby is 22 months old. GOD FORBID YOU SAY 'HE'S ALMOST TWO.'

So I had to do the advanced math and I finally figured out what they MEANT was five months. Till a cat is five months old, give him as much as he wants. Which by the way would be fine if I were Croesus. As much as he wants. He'd eat 47 cans a day.

But then. Oh, get this. THEN, when he's 20–30 weeks old, the teensy can reads, feed him "2/3 of an ounce per lb. of body weight per day."


Two-thirds of…

Oh, go fuck your own self. Are you fucking kidding me? Ima floomp a can in there every day till he's grown up. Jesus. Has this can-writer met America? We're still trying to figure out how a deck of cards can be a serving. Two-thirds of an ounce for every pound. Kindly take your can instrux and stick then where the sun does not shine, and I don't mean Seattle.

I'd just like a sit-down, I really would, with the yahoo who came up with that as a formula. Oh, surely everyone in the world will (a) know what their kitten weighs at all times, and (2) has time to figure out that math and convert the fraction and so on.

Seriously, who is this humorless schmuck? Where is he? Has be been laid EVEN ONCE in this lifetime? If so, how much did the woman weigh when you divide it by two-thirds?

Did NO ONE at his workplace say, hey, Plonathan, I'm wondering if these feeding instructions, not to mention this font, are not quite user-friendly. I wonder, Plonathan, if we can simplify these just a bit for stupid people, aka most of the country.

PEOPLE STILL THINK IT'S "awe" when something's cute! People think it's "at her becon call"! People think it's "for all intensive purposes"! BUT WE'RE SUPPOSED TO FIGURE OUT 2/3 OF AN OUNCE FOR EVERY POUND THE CAT WEIGHS.

Oh, but "for weeks 30 to 52, feed half a can per lb of body weight." Oh, thanks. That's so much easier.


This is as clearly as I can see it, so this photo is perfect. Maybe it just really IS that blurry.

Honestly, this is a huge thing with me, as you can see. Instructions that make no sense. I got an email just last night that I read three times and still couldn't make sense of. WHY CAN'T WE SPEAK CLEARLY ANYMORE? I think the real sign of intelligence is being able to state your point simply and concisely.

Says the person who just went on 20 paragraphs about cat food.

...friend/Ned · Health · June's stupid life

On the third day she rose again

On Thursday, I went to work like a normal person, and got m'roots done after.

That was the last time I was living like regular folk.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a raging migraine, and the worst part was I'd called the doctor and the pharmacy Thursday because all I had left was half a pill. They only give you 9 at a time, and you have one bad spell and you run out fast. Anyway, the pharmacy never refilled my prescription and now I was stuck with half a pill to get by on.

Friday morning was the worst. I called into work, said I'd try to be in by noon, and at noon I was no better. In fact I was awful. Ned called from Kansas and as soon as I answered the phone he knew it was bad. "I have no medicine left, and I have to wait for the doctor to refill it," I moaned.

You know Ned is good in a crisis. In fact, I'd say he sort of thrives on being there in a crisis. He's friends with a lot of woman. Enough said. And there he was, miles away, unable to help. It was kind of his worst nightmare. "Let me call the pharmacy and see what I can do," he said. "Let me get my brother to go get the pills for you, and drive them to you," he said, while he was supposed to be presidenting in Kansas.

I'd have died a trillion deaths if his brother had done that. So finally I called the pharmacy again. "Oh, those were ready yesterday! You should have automatically gotten a call!"


So I pulled on pants and a trench coat and schlepped my attractive self to the pharmacy. Oh, I felt bad. Every inch I moved in the car made me nauseated-er than the inch before.

Then of course when I actually took the medication, it was too late. The meds weren't gonna touch that migraine. I had to wait for it to end on its own.

And that is why I've had migraines on and off all weekend. I'll go a few hours feeling well, and then my head will rear its head again. I was supposed to go to a dinner party at a coworker's house last night but I had to cancel. I hate being unreliable that way.

Finally yesterday afternoon in my few good hours, I dragged myself out of the house and went downtown. I went down to my friend Kit's store, and ended up getting a 1970's sweater. Wait. I have it on now. Lemme show you it.


Do I look like one of Charlie's Angels, if Charlie's Angels had been slightly chubby?


Also I got sparkly earrings there. Let me show you it.


I realize I look dreadful. Almost like I've been sick for three days or something. I also went to the bookstore, and to the new Mediterranean restaurant and got myself some rice. Livin' la vida migraine.

Anyway, now Ned is finally back and ready to be attentive. Now it's too late, as I am generally on the mend. Look at my back door, which is not a euphemism. Good lord that door is in rotten shape. I'd like to photograph for you all the things I'd like to fix in this house. That door is one of them. That will be a whole 'nother blog post.

Oh, and also too, I still don't know how we're going to celebrate my 10-year anniversary of blogging, which will be December 15. What should we do that's fun?

And also also too, it's that time of year again for the good deed exchange. I know in the past it turns into a bit of a cluster, us pairing up. Does anyone organized have any suggestions for how to do this in a dignified way this year, instead of 8 people accidentally being paired up with Juice?

Juice doesn't even read this blog anymore, does she? But you know what I mean.

Maybe that's what we should do. Oh my god! We can do a "Where are they now" of people who went off in a huff, or got bored with me, or just wandered off. We can find J, who used to leave hilarious comments, and Furry Godmother, and Matze, and Deb's husband Peter. Wouldn't that be kind of fun?

Anyway, let me know your thoughts, while I try to gather mine. I know I was not funny today, as opposed to any other days, but my head is almost literally cotton. There's no cog in my native.

Maybe I'll finally shower. Ned's at physical therapy for his bulge, but he's coming over after. He already saw me today–brought me the New York Times wedding section. I like to read the wedding stories and hate everyone.

"This guy describes his new wife as a self-starter, with a great work ethic and a big heart. Is that how you describe me to your friends?" I asked Ned.

Ned never looked up from reading the noncommittal section of the paper.

"No," he said, turning his page.

There I go. Turn the page.


June's head

...friend/Ned · Film · June's stupid life · Marvin

The house began to pitch. And I’m a bitch.

"Marvin's getting married this weekend," I told Ned, "I feel nothing."

"See? That, right there. That scares the SHIT outta me. What if one day, after all this, you feel nothing for me?" I knew Ned was pointing at me dramatically, even though we were on the phone. He's in Kansas. Kansas, he says, is the name of his star.

Kansas, he says, is the

When I get to work today, Ima act like Glinda all day. I'll smile benevolently at everyone with my wand and sing in a really trilly voice. "Noon-ish, she says is the time of her deadline! Noonish, she says, is the time of her deadline."

"June, what time is the meeting?"

"Two two, two!"

My favorite line in that whole movie is, "Toto, too!" We need to incorporate that into our conversations today.

Also, I totally need a pink dress like that. What sleeves?

Anyway. He's in Kansas, Ned is, "slap in the middle of nowhere," is how he actually described it. I never knew I'd date anyone who said, "slap in the middle," but there it is.

And anyway, if you ask me, and you did by default cause you're stuck reading this, the HEALTHY response to your ex-husband getting married should be a feeling of nothing. I mean, if I felt rage or jealousy or deep sadness about the person I divorced five years ago, that might be a bad sign, right? Instead I feel a vague, Oh, good for him. And I'm Facebook friends with his new wife, and she seems cool. So what's the big deal?

Yesterday I had to write about 80 social media posts at work, not as my hobby, so I went to my hiding place. I don't know how other people get their work done in the open floor plan–I'm the only person I know who the headphones don't work for. You know how headphones are the universal sign for Do Not Disturb? About 60 times a day, I get someone gesturing at me between me and the computer screen, and then I take them off and it's all, "So how you doing?"

Seriously, why does anyone want to talk to me? I'm the crabbiest person you know.

So I can't work that way. That is why I got a hiding place at work.


I sit in this doorway, near an emergency exit, and there's a long hallway before you get there, and no reason to go here unless there's a, you know, emergency. Sometimes squirrels and birds go by the door, which is always lovely. I consider this Second Desk.


This time of year it's what you might call sunny.

Oooo, that reminds me, I get my hair cut and colored tonight. What a relief. Not only is it secretly gray, but it's all scraggeldy. I never did go back to the racist hairdresser–imagine how off the chain she is now.

Speaking of now, I've been watching all of the Mary Tyler Moore show. It's funny that they'd have a show they called that, but the lead character is Mary Richards. Anyway, on that show, they keep suggesting they do interesting things to the news, like give their opinion and not be neutral, or have funny segments, and those suggestions are always seen to be so outlandish. Oh, we'd NEVER do that.


Also, Sue Ann Nivens. Oh my god, she's the best.

Okay, I gotta go. Now that we've discussed the pressing issues of our time and all. I gotta slap something on, grab my wand and smile benevolently.


Okay, that was more fakely than benevolently.

...friend/Ned · Fuck natural · I am a pleasure of life · My pets · Times I Amused My Own Self

Retro June

Yesterday at work I went back to copy editing. I asked if I could do so some months ago, and they said okay, but you have to wait till we get other editors in here, so I waited, and then without further ado or fanfare, it was all, "Can you copy edit this?" and by the end of the day I'd copy edited three and a half articles and three decks. I know that might mean nothing to you, but trust me, that's a lot.

Oh my GOD, it was wonderful. I didn't have one meeting to go to all day! Now, today, I have to write again, so it's a gradual process, but oh it was nice to see my old friend the AP Stylebook, and worry about spaces before ellipses and how do you punctuate an episode of a TV series, not the show itself.

I liked doing the writing, I really did, but the stuff around it was so stressful. Meetings and people wanting to consult with you all the time and having to be creative on demand in a loud room. It just wasn't me. It'd be like asking a chihuahua to do disaster rescue.

I need a quiet little job, where I can worry about teensy things like apostrophes. My insides are loud and chaotic enough as it is, without my outsides being the same.

And the good news is, I still get to do a wee bit of writing, which I did really like, but without the "Get to this meeting, get to this one, think of this idea NOW you have two hours, go" thing. So, best of both worlds!

I guess I'm kind of returning to my old life, aren't I?

I used to be a copy editor, then I switched, and now I copy edit again.

I used to date Ned, then I didn't, and now I do again.

I used to live here, then I didn't, and now I live here again.

I used to have a dog and three cats, then I switched it up to two and two like I was Chuck Wollery, and now I have a dog and three cats again.

God, I'm so retro.

I'm so 2009. Without the husband part. When do I get to the husband part?

And you know, I'm rethinking the husband part. Especially yesterday after you all told me the things that made you irrationally mad and so much of it was, "When my husband … ." I love comment days like that, and I know I irk the people who work around me when I read your comments and laugh out loud. I ell oh ell. I refuse to write those three letters even in jest.

But really, I am, you know, an irritable person. Maybe I'm better off living alone. I adore living alone. I can't begin to tell you how happy it makes me to come here and have my time to myself. Last night I got home with the intention of leaving again and going to the old theater I like and watching Rocky. I even had a brilliant idea: I'd go into the theater with my popcorn, pretend I was looking for a friend, and yell



I was cracking my own self up, for a change.

But then I decided to stay home and do my goddamn stupid yoga DVD that really namas my stay. "Expand your heart, and root down with your shin bones."


The shit they say during a yoga class is ridik. "Really plug into the back of your heart."

Okay, plug into the back of my dick. Can't they just say what they mean? Like, literally, where do you want my leg to be right now. Don't tell me to "root down" anything unless we're suddenly digging for truffles.

I'm the only person you know who gets even angrier when she does yoga.

The point is, I stayed in, and after "really bringing [my] glow forward" texted with my friend M, who comments here sometimes. I met M when we were both single and ready to root our chakras, and plug into our heart center, back last year. He lives in Florida, but he saw my profile, and when you have All This…

"I live in Florida, so we'll never meet, but your profile is great," he wrote me. What kills me is we both shut down our dating sites with a flourish sometime later, so neither of us knows our anniversary, but we know it's sometime in October.

Anyway, we've become friends. In much the same way you and I are, in that we've never actually met. I know all his stupid shit and he knows all mine, and there it is. Anyway, it was a fine evening, hating yoga and hating my friend M because he hates Say Anything, and how can I even be friends with someone with such bad taste in things?

So what do I want to get married for? I might not. I'll let you know if I do. I told Ned I might be just fine if we were just engaged and never went through with it, like Oprah and Steadman. I'm trying to still diddle Gayle, is the point.

Photo on 11-16-16 at 8.03 AM

The whole time I've been writing you, Sir Dickus R Puddingcup, over here, has been prancing past me, walking across the keypad and generally getting in my way, as cats are wont to do. Why do I always get the most jerky pets? This kitten is what Lottie was to puppies. Aka, world's most rambunctious. Look at his Great Horned Owl look, up there, and he'll get a REAL horned owl look when I throw him outside for pickup. Old Screechy outside will take this kitten to his nest.

Yesterday I was in the bathroom, and he ran in and leaped onto the shower curtain, and just hung there like a moth, just to see if he could. I watched him sway in the breeze a little, just hanging on the curtain.

wee exhaust, mom. kittee exhaust.

I gotta go, but I did want to show you the photo Ned just text me. Here is the breathtaking view from his hotel room:


Ooooooo! God. Lucky. I wish I were president of something and got to travel.

Okay, goodbye. Be sure to root down through your tailbone today. Namaste here and laugh at you when you do.

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Television

The mother and childish reunion

In a fit of fiscal responsibility, I canceled my cable about a week ago, and then last night I realized I was gonna miss the intellectually stimulating Real Housewives of Orange Country reunion special.

I wasn't even gonna see Ned last night, rich Ned with his cable. Ever since Ned and I decided to do our 90-day, same-as-cash reunion, we've been gone. Either I'm out of town or he is. So I got back to town Saturday, and he leaves this morning. Then he gets back Friday and leaves Saturday.


The point is, as soon as I got home this Saturday, we saw each other, and then again Sunday, so on Monday night he called me after disk bulge physical therapy. "What do you want to do tonight?" he asked.

"Ned, I know we're not gonna see each other till Friday, but I am exhausted," I said, and I can't imagine why. Couldn't be m'diet. "Do we have to do something?"

"Of course not," said Ned, who announced he was going home to feed his cat, then to dinner.

So when I realized I was going to miss the reunion last night, and that a mature individual could wait till the next day and watch it on her app–and yes I have a Bravo app and why don't you shut up–I called Ned back. Because there's no point in pretending I'm mature.

"Hello, Ned," I cooed, trying to sound seductive. Maybe if I seemed hot, he'd be amenable to letting me watch his very least-favorite show of all time at his house.

"Are you okay?" he asked, as I sounded vaguely like I'd swallowed hot mustard.

"Yes, I'm fine," I snapped. "But the Real Housewives reunion is tonight."

"I TOLD you not to cancel your cable," said Ned, who is my immaturity enabler. I'd already eaten, so Ned said, "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll leave my back door unlocked and turn the TV to Bravo, so if you get here before I'm done with dinner, you can just come in and start watching."

And that's just what I did. If you break all laws, you can get to Ned's in just four minutes, so I left my house at 7:55 and got there just before it started. Oh, it was exciting.

NedKitty ate my hair while I watched, and eventually Ned got back and looked at the TV a second, shook his head disapprovingly because sporting events are so much more honorable to watch, and went upstairs to pack for his next goddamn trip. They should stop calling them "trips" and just call them "professional cockblocks."

"Who's that one with the lips?" he asked once he'd packed. The one with the lips. Oh, that narrows it down. I think he meant Kelly. So then I had to tell him just how horrible Kelly is. Kelly says really, really mean things and then when people accuse her of going too low, she repeatedly asks, "Are there rules? Are there rules that say I can't fight dirty?"

Yes. They're called the rules of human decency.

Kelly is lucky she doesn't have blonde hair and brown eyes, is all I can say.

"Is that Vicki?" he asked later. "The one who lied about her boyfriend having cancer?" Last night, Vicki actually told one of the other women to get off her show. Her show. Hey, nutty. How's your grand delusion?

"It occurs to me, Ned, that you got a whole year of missing all the housewives," I noted. I wouldn't say he's been missing it, Bob. Ned once said that the formula for these shows is you take a bunch of pretty women and shake 'em up–with a bunch of bees. See what happens. Really, the best part of these reunions is watching Andy Cohen's bemused face as he mentally counts his cash.

Anyway, that was that, and now tonight Ima go see Rocky at the old movie theater. When I was a kid, we lived near a movie theater; you could see it from our house. So in the summer, when I was bored, I'd go to the dollar movie during the day, in the air conditioning. I saw Rocky approximately 20 times. I am not kidding. Same with The Sting.

The Sting is a really hard movie to understand, so it was good to see it that many times.

Also, Robert Redford.

Oh! I almost forgot. I was so busy informing you of the pressing events of our time. I wanted to ask you about two things today–you can respond to either or both.

First of all, have you or anyone you've known been in a relationship that hit a rough spot–you know, like being broken up for 14 months, just to throw a scenario out there–and survived? I want success stories. So far things with Ned are great, but I'm realistic. We're in the novelty of the reunion. Yes, we've got a plan in place for how we're going to do better, but do these things actually ever work? Do tell.

Also, we talked yesterday in the comments about things that make you irrationally angry. Like, FR Paula H&B said she gets irrationally angry when her purse falls off the car seat as she drives.


But I get angry all the time. I have a temper like a, you know, temper person. If I were a mattress, I'd be a Tempur-Pedic. If I were a band, I'd be the Temper-tations. If I were a magazine, I'd be Mad. I've always been that way. My aunt, when she visited recently, talked about a time I was 3, when I stormed down the hall to my room, stomp stomp stomping all the way, and I slammed my door pointedly, just in case everyone didn't know I was furious, and the door popped back open, so I slammed it again.



So, yes, the purse off the carseat does make me angry, as do things I try a couple times and fail at, such as securing a necklace. I'm normal maybe three times, but if I still can't clasp it the fourth time,


Oh, and if I get too many calls, texts and emails in a row. Like, the day I got back to town, I was just trying to unpack and settle back in, and every time that phone dinged at me I was furious. I mean, I had the choice to ignore said phone, but I still got mad.

Why? Why so cranky?

So now you go. Relationship falter/success stories, and also stories about what makes you irrationally angry. Do tell.


...friend/Ned · At Two With Nature · I am berserk · June's stupid life · June's vast love of eagles

For six nights in a row


That's what woke me up this morning, a few minutes before my alarm: SCREEEEEEEEECH!

"That's actually coming from outside my head," I realized, and then I wondered if someone was being murdered. Exciting! "Coooo! Cooo! Cooooo!" I heard then, and right then I knew. Either Yoko Ono was gettin' some from my neighbor, Paul, (or god forbid Peg)…

or it was a bird.

June Gardens, Wildlife Expert®.

Naturally, I looked it up, asking Siri, "What kind of bird screeches, then coos?" Usually Siri is a lazy ass sack who never answers a goddamn freaking thing. The difference between my stupid useless Siri and Ned's whoever-she-is on his Samsung Galaxy is astonishing.

"When is the next full moon?" we'll both ask our phones.

"The next full moon is November 14, and it's a rare super moon," his phone will immediately say, a trifle smugly.

"I'm sorry. I could not find runcible spoon," Siri will say. Or if she does hear me, she sends me to an ARTICLE to READ. I don't have time to read. I'm a busy executive. Just fucking tell me. Siri makes everything a hassle. Siri is the Typepad of phones.

I wonder if I could be any more entitled. My PHONE, that I carry WITH me and that has all the information in the WORLD in it, that also takes pictures and can navigate for me, won't tell me what bird screeches and coos. WHO CAN LIVE THIS WAY.

The point is, it did tell me, syphilitic Siri did, and it would appear I have a Great Horned Owl in my yard.

fuk ant joon

"Don't let the cats out," said Ned as soon as I called him, and apparently Ned and my mom have founded a Tell June the Obvious Club. Anyway, I went outside with Edsel to see if I could see him, my new hoot owl howling by my window now, as I wish to meet him and kiss him on his crabby head and maybe let him live inside, so I could be charmingly eccentric like Uncle Billy in It's a Wonderful Life.

Do you think maybe he'll build a owl nest-y, with owl babies-ses that I can kiss and hug and pet? Soft baby owl-ses? OH MY GOD I WOULD NEVER BE SAD AGAIN. I could run around getting them owl food, because I'd be super good at hauling a couple baby bunnies up a tree. That wouldn't kill me or anything.

Look at his big owl feets. DON'T YOU LOVE HIM SO BAD? Ima name him Das Hoot.

In other news, I'm home. Hello. I unpacked right away, because the image of Faithful Reader Paula unpacking in the middle of the night because she can't rest till everything's put away made me feel guilty. Oh! And the worst thing.

I got to baggage claim and got m'pink huge bag off the thing®. I had a bottle of water with me, and as I got on the escalator, I let go of my bag to take a drink.


My goddamn BAG fell behind me, and FLOOMPED all the way down the escalator which was thankfully empty, and slid zestfully all the way across baggage claim.

Oh my god.

I mean, what if someone had been behind me? I'd have knocked them off the escalator, too! What if I'd knocked some kid over?

As it was, a hundred million people ran to see what all the floomping was, and there I was, the only woman around for miles, and where was I, Alaska all of a sudden? "That's mine!" I waved eagerly, walking down the stairs to get my humiliated bag.

"Was that just a bag and not a person?" a frazzled airport employee ran over. Oh calm down.

"Yes, it was my bag. I dropped it," I told her, trying to act like all the cool people were doing it. I saw Steve McQueen drop his bag the exact same way in Klute.

I have no idea if Steve McQueen was even in Klute.

"You should do an ad for that bag," said a man nearby, as I retrieved my unscratched bag.

Pink Bags. Tough, But Fair®.

® is a big thing with me today.

Other than that, it's been a relatively sedate homecoming, what with crippled-up Ned and his bulging disks. He's forever raising his arm and flexing his hand and wincing and carrying on.

Did you have something you wanted to share with the class, Ned?

 "I know you're annoyed by my pain," said Ned, as he winced and carried on.

"No, I'm not," I said, totally annoyed by his wincing and carrying on.

We went to eat last night and the restaurant was playing a duet from the '80s. "Is this a duet with Kenny Loggins?" Ned asked.

"It is. I believe it's with Stevie Nicks," I told him. I always know from what I call Saginaw songs. Like, if it's some top 40 thing from anywhere between 1974 and 1988, I know who sang it and when it was a song. My friend Dave, who also grew up in Saginaw, had a classy boyfriend from Hawaii, and whenever Dave and I were jamming out in the car to something like Hocus Pocus by Focus, the Hawaiian boyfriend would be all, "What even is this? This is a Saginaw song."

The point of my story is, I told Ned about Stevie Nicks and Kenny Loggins and then possibly went into a diatribe about how much I hate the song Leather and Lace, and then furthered my rant about how much Stevie Nicks annoys me in general.

"She's why I can't stand women with blonde hair and brown eyes," I said.


"Oh, they bug me, women with blonde hair and brown eyes. And it's all Stevie Nicks's fault."

Sometimes Ned looks at me like, What on earth have I done? I was rid of her.

Blonde-haired, brown-eyed women are such a disappointment," I said. "They're the raisin cookie of women."

I suppose it was nice having you as readers, BHBEW. I will miss you all.

Imagine how the BHBEW with horseshoe haircuts must hate me.

fuk ant june

Look, I'm a gray-haired, blue-eyed woman. Which disappoints everyone.

I'd better go. Now that I've spread all this positivity and love. I will let you know when Roddy MacOwl moves in, and which bedroom he gets, and so on. Maybe if he moves in, I can become one of those people who gets really into woodsy Native American-ish stuff, and wear pine cone earrings and a lot of turquoise and kokopelli the shit outta the whole house. Won't you enjoy my kokopelli couch and kokopelli curtains? I turned this tree log into a coffee table. Sit down and I'll make you some frybread.



June's stupid life

Break on through to the other side

Do you remember a few years ago when I had everyone write in something nice about the other side? I'm talking politically. The other side of wherever you are.

We're gonna do that again today.

Have you ever been so mad at someone, OOOOOOooo, so mad, and then you talk, and then it's okay, and you feel 100 times lighter?

I'm not saying that can happen all at once here, but if we just freaking try to find some things we like about each other, maybe we can start. Because we can scream all we want, and accuse all we want, and become 8 years old and use words like "Killary" and "Drumpf" like a bunch of idiots. or we can try to find common ground and maybe eventually move toward living more peacefully with each other.

So. Here's how it works. You leave a comment with simple declarative sentences about the other side's good parts. No backhanded compliment, no argument, no snide comments. You do that and not only will I delete you today, I will block you for all time. We are here today to get better, not argue the same shit all over again.

So I will start. 

I know that conservative people want this country to be safe. They want this country to be economically secure. I want those things, too, and I hope we can find a way to compromise with each other in order to achieve that.

Now you go.

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

I really thought y’all were gonna write my name in

What I'm not going to do? Drone on about politics when half of you feel one way, half feel the opposite. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

What I am going to do? Make you hear about m'trip home so far. No photos yet cause it's a pain in the ass to search my phone, select photos, email them to myself, get on my email up on mom's laptop, drag the photos onto mom's desktop, then upload them here.

[Whole room dearly wishes I'd talk about politics.]

First of all, I almost missed my damn flight. I stupidly scheduled to leave out of Raleigh, an hour away, fairly early in the day. I gave myself lots of time, but still got stuck in traffic and was 15 miles from the airport with less than an hour till my flight.

If I'd had a theme song right then, it'd have been Mission Impossible. It'd have been Under Pressure.

So I called Delta Dawn to ask that what that flower was they had on while I drove, and of course it was all, "Press one for blah de bloo," which was impossible because I was driving and what companies could do to make everyone happier is hire humans to answer the phone right away. And also to not tell me that I need to pay attention to all the prompts because "our menu has recently changed."


Anyway, I kept screeching, "Representative," and finally that worked, and when I got a human I told her the story of how I've never missed a flight before, but I was stuck in traffic and now it's 50 minutes till my departure and I'm at a standstill three exits away.

"We recommend you get to the airport 90 minutes before your flight," she said, and that is when I shot her. But other than that she was helpful, and when I finally got there and drove 39439494 miles in a circle to park and schlepped my suitcase 70 miles and stood in line to check my bag and stood in line for the anal probe and got to the gate, the plane was boarding.

Then in Detroit I got off my plane and my next plane was in a different terminal

…and already boarding.

Mother of god.

Anyway, the good news was I left North Carolina at 9:38 and got to Saginaw at 1:30, ready to kill my own self.

"I brought you Quiznos," said my mother, who knew of my charming day so far. "I looked at the menu and ordered exactly the opposite of what I'd ever get." She handed me my steak and cheese.

She'd wanted me to go terrecktly to her book club with her right from the airport. My stepfather bought me the book they were reading; he was going to book club, too. I read the book (Let the Great World Spin–highly recommend. Don't get bored at first) but I was in no mood. No mood.

I went home and napped while they went to book club.

Then mom and all her hippie friends had an election night party, and you know how Mary Richards' parties always went? This doomed party was right up there with the time Lou Grant and his wife broke up at Mary's party. (The same party that Lars slept with SueAnn Nivens. Do you recall that? I hadn't. Guess who's been binging Mary Tyler Moore?)

I noted on Facebook that I was home, and I don't know why I do this, because 394858493 people from my past always do the, "Oh! You're in town! Why don't you drive 35 miles to my house and we'll catch up from that time we last saw each other in 1982!" thing.

I suppose I should be delighted that this happens, and that people don't say, "Oh my god, I hope June doesn't remember I live here," but it always puts me in this awkward position of, well, no. No, I really can't abandon my actual family and so on to hang out, seeing as I'm home about once a year and usually for around 72 hours and even then I probably won't see everyone who's blood. Because damn Catholics.

However, there was this woman I was good friends with in junior high who saw I was home. We worked the library together for fifth hour in 8th grade. Working in the library was an excellent way to get out of gym. Anyway, she saw I was home, and attending my mom's doomed pantsuit party, and could she come, and I was excited to see her so I said okay to the man.

That line is only funny to When Harry Met Sally fans.

She came? With Kurt Russell wine. "Kurt Russell is my Barry Gibb," she announced to the room at large, and right then they knew. She was my people. 

I was unable to resist doing the pain-in-the-ass practice of uploading a photo of my junior high friend and her Kurt Russell wine for your viewing pleasure, so while I was up I got some more photos for you.


I mean, did you even know Kurt Russell made wine?


Aunt Kathy, mom and me at Mom's pantsuit party, before it took a turn. Before it became less a pantsuit and more a prick suit. Andy Sipowitz used to say that on NYPD Blue when he was being crabby. "Sorry, didn't mean to put on my prick suit." I try to work that into conversations as often as I can. It's not easy.

Okay, you seriously have no idea what a pain that is, so no more photos till I get home.

My mother's phone rings all the time. Her home phone. Does your phone ring anymore? I mean, I'm assuming you don't have a home phone; I don't. Your cell phone, though. The only person who calls me, ever, is Ned. Back when we were dating in Round 1, he called every night we didn't see each other and we'd recap our day, and he does so once again in Round 2. But other than that? I mean, my aunts will call maybe once a month. My mother calls. And then I call her back, adding to her ringing phone.

There are also many people bounding in and out of here all day. My mother is way more social than I am. If people wandered in and out at my house I'd be all, WHAT.

I'd love to italicize that "what" to fully emphasize my crabby, like you need that further emphasized, but I can't highlight it and scroll up and hit ital. I am hampered, y'all.

Anyway, I've talked too long as it is, so I will recap more for you tomorrow. This will give you something to look forward to, sort of like Christmas Eve.


Okay one more. Mom says we look like we're posing for a new Mt. Rushmore. Also, mom needs to give it up on the raised eyebrows look.



...friend/Ned · Times I Amused My Own Self · Tracy Quartermaine

Dewey Defeats Truman

I gots to go. I have to get in the car, drive to freaking Raleigh, get on a plane and fly to Michigan. I'm running for president and thought I'd better get on the campaign trail.

That would so be how I'd run for president. Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it. I'll campaign.

Anyway, my mother is having an election night party that I will be attending seeing as I am there and all. And then tomorrow is her 90th birthday.

One of the millennials from work is pet-sitting, and she came over yesterday to met everyone and Edsel plans to devote his life to making her happy.


Here's Ned's front porch Sunday morning. The people next door have the best tree in the whole neighborhood. You can't really see it, but his Halloween skeleton cat is on the table, there.

Wait, June. Sunday morning?

I went over there for some flour. I went over there to pick him up for church. I went over there cause I'd made a big batch of muffins and wondered if he wanted any. I went over there to snake his sink. I went over there for our Sunday morning singalong and jazz hands hour.

All right, I gotta go. But don't forget to vote, if you haven't. Please note I voted early and did not make you look at my I Voted sticker, nor did I take a selfie with my ballot–a ballottee–a selfott–nor did I announce on social media that I voted and what a wonderful person I was for supporting [insert veiled reference to how bad the other candidate is here].

It's a sad day when I'm the least-obnoxious person around.

Talk to you later, when I'd really love to discuss Frisco and Felicia from General Hospital, a thing we ended up talking about on Facebook the other night and now I am obsessed. I'd also like to discuss the Jeff/Heather/Annie triangle, Monica and Alan, and everything about Robert Scorpio plus also not to mention incidentally The Floating Rib.

Lady of my heart. Tell me who you are.

See? Obsessed. I got Lasa Fever.



P.S. Do NOT forget to remind me to tell you (wow, June) about the bee attack at Boston Market. Why so sizeable, June?

P.P.S. The Ice Princess

P.P.P.S. Mikkos Cassadine

P.P.P.P.S. Ima miss my damn plane

June's stupid life

Return of the Ned. Maybe.

Here's something I've told almost no one.

I officially moved out of Ned's house on November 11 last year. Our deal was I'd do it while he was at work. I ended up running late. I had the last load–aka the pets–and we were puling out of the driveway just as Ned was pulling in. Had there been five seconds difference in either of our schedules, this all wouldn't have happened.

We both got out of our cars and ran toward each other. "I'll do anything to fix this relationship," I said, not knowing I was going to say that at all.

"So will I," he said.

So we talked briefly that day, agreed to see a therapist, one who didn't know either of us, and then I turned back to my car (where Edsel had gotten in the driver's seat), and I drove my little pet family to my old/new home, with just a modicum of hope things would work out with Ned.

Now it's 14 months later. We saw The Hairapist, without telling anyone. (She always had different-colored streaks in her hair, so Ned named her The Hairapist.) I loved her.

She helped, but also, you know that part where I dramatically said I'd do anything to save the relationship that night in the glow of our headlights?

Sometimes I reneged on that.

Sometimes I'd get really mad at all the truly, truly rotten stuff that had happened while Ned and I were together, and I'd be all, "I don't need this. This is bullshit." And really, I was right. I mean, I'm totally still on my side on that, there.

So I stopped seeing The Hairapist with him. And I'd block him from my phone. And we went long stretches of time without speaking. I dated 10 other men in these past 14 months. I even kissed one of them. But nothing ever took off. I just never felt very interested.

Ned got on dating sites, too. I saw his punk ass on there once or twice, and I'd block him with an angry flourish.

But the thing is, he always showed up again. I'd check my blocked messages every few weeks and there he'd be. When Tallulah died, I ended up calling him and he spent the night even though he hates my bed. Hurts his back. When Edsel ate Lottie, I called him then, too and he was over in minutes. He's been here with groceries and presents and even screamed over to hunt and kill The World's Largest Cockroach that was on my ceiling one night.

This whole time he hasn't wanted to be broken up even for a minute. And when we were talking these past 14 months, he'd tell me about changes he was making in his life.

For example, one of our problems (we had 99 problems but me being a bitch wasn't one. Okay, that's not remotely true) was that we fought like George and Martha in Who's Afraid of Virgina Woolf. But we've gotten so much better at how to not do that, mostly because Ned got better at it and I followed suit. It almost feel like it'd be impossible to ever fight like that again. I can't even imagine we were ever those people.

So anyway, all spring and all summer I dated, but as the summer turned to fall I found myself deleting my membership on those sites one at a time, and going on fewer dates. I started seeing Ned once in awhile. Finally Ned invited me to go to the beach with him in October, and I knew it could end in disaster, but it ended up being the best vacation, ever.


We decided to give it one more try, in a 90-day, same-as-cash kind of a trial. When the 90 days are up, if it didn't work, hey. At least we gave it EVERY DAMN CHANCE POSSIBLE.

Will we move back in together, ever? I say no. Ned says he can see that happening again.

I still say no. I say not ever.

And let's face it. Dude is never ever gonna marry me. As Donald Trump would say, I know it, you know it, everybody knows it. So part of my 90 days is I have to decide if I can live with the idea that someone is devoted to me but will probably not ever marry me. And I go back and forth on that, man. I do. You know what I'd love? Is if we got married and got to live on our own houses. Maybe we could live in a duplex, or in two side-by-side cottages. Maybe we could be married but live on opposite coasts. Yeah, that sounds reasonable.

So that's the way it is. I could have kept quiet about it, and not subject myself to the 649 OPINIONS Ima get on this, but I tell you my everyday news every day, and I didn't see how I'd be all, "I was at dinner with …a friend." It'd be like the old days, where I kept him mysterious. But I'd rather be honest and let the chips fall where they may on this. It's my life and it's my potentially grave mistake I'm making here. So.

I told him what I was going to write here today, to see if he was good with it all. And he said it was fine, but couldn't I mention his sore neck?

Oh, for the love of…Ned has a bulging disc. I hope you're all going to be able to sleep, knowing that.

So. I'll keep you posted. I'm still a little surprised we're trying this.

But it's nice having a Ned again. It's nice being Nick and Nora again, and not George and Martha.

I never did feel right without a Ned.

June's stupid life · Proofreading/Copy editing

“I Supervised June.” A scathing guest post by my boss, fmr.

When I first became June’s boss, she brought up the idea of me writing a guest post for her blog—a whole “I Supervised June” thing. I said sure. Now I’m not her boss, and I have time to write the post. Those two things are not related.

I think June expects me to tell you all what a challenging person she is to manage. I think she expects me to say:

That she’s a drama queen. Not really. I’ve managed rafts of interns and no person is as much a drama queen as a college senior.

That she’s got bizarre taste in desk décor. You all may have seen the “It’s not mean if it’s hilarious” cross stitch she has and the like. Again not really the bizarrest, in my experience. One of my mentors had a freeze-dried octopus in a plastic bag pinned to his office bulletin board—for years. I think he snuck it through customs on his way back from Malaysia. He also had a model airplane made from a deer mandible that he got on a trip to South America. The teeth were still attached.

That she never listens to what I asked her to do. In truth, I think she’s psychic. I have a belief that it takes three things to do well here at our company: Make friends in other departments, have a creative outlet other than what you write and edit here, and be vocal when you’ve got too much to do. I didn’t have to tell her any of that when I became her boss: June, as you all well know, has plenty of friends at work, has a creative outlet that she works on daily, and if I ever had missed that she was overcommitted at work because I was, too, I could just check the blog and catch up.

That she takes too much time off. Nope. See above on college interns. Hire them their final semester, and they’ll leave for spring break, midterms, commencement rehearsal, parents’ weekend, senior class birdwatching and teambuilding, Greek senior beach bonding and then ask for more time so they can actually study and pass their finals.

That I roll my eyes every time she has a migraine. Actually, I’m very sympathetic. I used to get them almost every week in my 20s. The worst one I had, I thought that the side of my face was melting off. I’ve got them controlled now, but I would drive her home if she had one and needed to leave the office midday.

That I think she’s weird for blogging. Well…. I do think that I couldn’t possibly blog about losing a pet or train sex with Ned (I’m putting myself in her shoes; I never had any sex with Ned and in fact have never met him), but I do enjoy reading her blog very much. I had no idea how the Naughty Professor (who started working at our company before I did) found love again after he lost his longtime partner until I read that post. And I have known Griff since 1998, and almost hyperventilated when I binge read his/June’s Twitter feed for the first time. (*Fun fact: Griff is squeamish. I once unintentionally made him turn white when he overheard me telling a coworker about a bad Red Cross blood donation experience.)

So, sorry, June. She and I actually have a lot in common. We’re both Midwesterners and I make her do the Michigan hand map thing sometimes. We both think Meyers Briggs is awesome and explains much of how the world works. We have some of the same shoes and why I’ve never seen her at DSW at the same time as I’m there, it has to be because I was in the clearance section while she was checking out and we just missed one another. We both like this corner bar in town that has blackened green beans. I don’t know if she likes their green beans, but she should. We both know and think her neighbor Peg is awesome; Peg and I used to go to the same church and worked on a big mission trip fundraising silent auction for several years together. We both think there is no frigate like a book. We both adore The Poet; she set me and my husband up on a blind date.

We have a lot that we’re not alike about, too. I’m very allergic to cats, I have kids, I think California is evil (ok, not evil, but I’ve never had that pull to it that so many other people do) and she’s got a zippier car (I heart my minivan).  

Anyway. That’s what it’s like to be June’s boss.

Aging ungracefully · Health · I am a pleasure of life · June's stupid life

Here come ol’ flattop

I just spent forever waiting for my toast to pop up outta my Hello Kitty toaster, and as soon as I gave up and sat down here, it popped.


Anyway, thanks for your comments yesterday, and to those of you who left a tip! Also, if you signed in here as commenter csmith yesterday, please email me at Some of us have something we want to run by you. Literally. We literally want to run by you with something, It's a live bull. Okay, it isn't, but email me, will you? I tried you last night but worry that I went to spam.

Anyway. So yesterday I went to the eye doctor, and if everyone will open their Big Book of June Events to page 1893, you'll see that for years I went to this wonderful woman who was very mild-mannered but who traveled around going to roller coasters. Then, because I have turned into my grandmother, her secretary pissed me off, so last year I huffed all the way…across the street to the eye doctor there.

Once I got there I realized the annoying insurance thing that first secretary told me was true everywhere, so at first I was all, wow, I should go back to Roller Girl, but THEN they got me IN there, and had all this highfalutin equipment, and wow! Yes. I stayed.

They took me to a computer and had me stare at this back-and-forth picture of a field, a summer field, if you will, which always sounds like when someone mispronounces my last name. My last name that HAS NO "I" IN IT, THERE'S NO "I" IN TEAM AND NO "I" IN SOMMERFELD NOT THAT THAT'S MY REAL LAST NAME I'M SO IN DISGUISE WITH JUNE GARDENS, woo!

Then they did the puff of air? At the eye doctor? But it's no longer a puff. It's a light.

There's a li-ii-ght. Certain kind of light. That never shone on me.

THEN they did other things that did NOT involve dilating my eyeballs, and that right there is worth the price of admission.

When the doctor bustled in, he washed his hands and looked at my chart. "Fifty-one? Let me just congratulate you. Fifty-one? You don't look anywhere NEAR 51."

That right there was worth the price of admission. I know I already said that, but come on.

My vision hasn't changed, except my close-up vision is even WORSE this year and who knew that was possible. He said my reading glasses may change from 1.50 or 2.00 in the morning and all the way to 2.50 at night.

Let me get the popcorn and pull my chair closer, June. This.Is.Riveting.

Somehow I mentioned having an ex-husband, I don't even recall how, and he said, "Did you say ex-husband? What kind of an idiot would let a good-looking woman like you go? Is he crazy?"

That right there was worth the price of admission.

Anyway, I drove home with 10 free contacts, and woooo! They told me to call when I need more, but to tell you the truth, I get my contacts from David, the guy adjacent to my old eye doctor across the street. He, too, has told me I'm lovely.

June. Shopping at places that compliment her. Since 1972. When I was a kid there was one meat cutter at the grocery store who always called me "Shorty." It was my opinion that he knew just who I was, and couldn't wait to see me every week, so I'd insist we return weekly to the inconveniently placed "Shorty," which is what I called the store. (Mom, it was in Fort Sagianw Mall. I think it was a Vaicio's.) 

Now that I'm a mature adult

I know that that guy probably called EVERY kid Shorty and gave them attention while their moms got the ground round or whatever.

However, my eye doctor and glasses salesperson reserve these compliments only for All This.

In other news, while I don't want you to be up nights worrying, I do believe I'm getting a cold. My boss, Thousandman (yes, he's my boss again. Keep up.) has been out sick all week, and I don't think he's called in sick in the five and a half years I've worked with him.

Now I'm riddled with his disease. I must have been held in his armchair.

I have to go. Wait, let me see if I took any photos of pets last night… IMG_3221
Ohhh. Look at my muffin. Iris so pretty. Wif her tawny nose part.

Okay, I'll stop.



P.S. cmith, don't forget to email me!