June's stupid life

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints, help George Bailey.

That line above is from It’s a Wonderful Life, which I saw last week at my old theater. Every time I see that movie I’m an It’s-a-Wonderful-Life-quoting asshole for the next month. That line is from right at the beginning when all you see is George Bailey’s roof but you hear everyone praying for him.

I suppose the person saying that line is Martini the bartender, and with a name like that, what vocational choice did he have, really? I guess he could have worked at a factory that stuffs pimentos into olives.

Who decided that was a must, anyway? Was there some kind of pimento lobby? It’s like the only place pimentos ever go, really. It’s the only place pimentos get any work. No one has a pimento soup or a pimento…martini.

Anyway, once old Martini the bartender sent that prayer up to Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the saints, do you suppose they were all, “Yeah. I gotta transfer you to my supervisor. Wrong extension, there, Bub”?

When you get transferred in heaven, do you suppose the hold music is just some old-timey hymn or maybe a little Foghat? Maybe some Hocus Pocus by Focus.

Once Marvin and I were in the car with another couple, and he had his guitar–which, why? Anyway, he started playing Hocus Pocus and I did the yodeling and why didn’t we have more couple friends, I wonder.

Hello. Welcome to my brain.

It’s 6:22 a.m. and I’m up, I’ve BEEN up, because I had a migraine for THIRTY-SIX HOURS this weekend. I’m writing you with no food in me and my first coffee since about nineteen aught seven.

And it wasn’t just a migraine that took up my entire Sunday. No. It was a migraine with nausea, then really bad GERD due to my migraine pills, and then also panic attacks each moment I was awake. I was alternately covered in sweat or freezing and my thoughts were race race racing.

It was relaxing.

I’ll tell you who’s a good boy, though. Edsel never left me. I had to mince up once, to feed him in the morning, and mince up again to feed him at night, and once during the middle of the day I forced him to go out and pee. He really wasn’t going to go. He kept looking outside but then back at me. “Eds, I won’t die if you go out for a minute,” I moaned at him, hunched and sweaty.

He didn’t quite believe me, and I didn’t quite believe me.

Anyway, seeing as I slept fitfully from 7:00 Saturday night till 5:30 this morning, I’d say I got my rest. And Edsel had a delightful 20 minutes running outside in the dark already this morning.

Thanks for all your nice words about Iris. I can’t even think of her sweet face yet. I can’t.

And by the way, when I wasn’t grieving or having migraines, I did manage to go to some more places in town I’ve never been, per my deal with self.

One place I’ve always wanted to go was this pharmacy quite near me that I know had a soda fountain but I’d never gone in to see it. I finally went in and saw it! They had Old Spice for $3, which I desperately wanted to buy, but I did get some cotton pads, as SOME YELLOW ASSFACE kitten took all of my current cotton pads, cotton pads, crnt., and splayed them across my bathroom floor.

I also have these six natural-fiber washcloths my Aunt Mary got me for Christmas–they’re supposed to be excellent for removing makeup. Anyway, I washed then folded them all and put them in a cubby in my bathroom, which has a whole wall of little cubbyholes.

Cubbies. Also, while I was in there photographing that for you, I heard…

…commotion, which was Milhous hiding in the shower curtain to torment Edsel. I will be needing a new shower curtain once he’s an adult, or once I take him to the pound, whichever comes first.

This morning when I finally emerged from my sickroom, it was a little treasure hunt of natural-fiber washcloths all across my house. Milhous had taken them all down and apparently carried them about like prey.

Anyway, my point is, I am seriously considering switching kittens/pharmacies now to the old-timey soda fountain one. First of all, it’s a lot closer and secondly, I can sit at the counter like I’m Violet Bick in It’s a Wonderful Life.

Let me tell you something: I will always be on the side of the over-the-top blonde when there’s a no-nonsense brunette to contend with. No-nonsense brunettes tire me.

I also went to a new resale shop, to benefit hospice, as a neighbor told me the stuff in there is “too nice” and she wouldn’t be back. This appealed to my narcissism and I headed there posthaste.

They really did have some hoity-toity stuff in there. I kind of liked this end table.

So that sums up the rest of my time off, and what a way to end it. Tonight there’s a big NYE party at the B&B my friends own, and it’s The Poet’s birthday, and I’d invited her to go to said party but now I don’t know how I’ll be feeling. I hate migraines ruining my life.

I leave you with my end-of-the-year video, which I showed you a few weeks ago but now it’s really actually the end of the year, so…

Talk to you next year. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Wooo.

P.S. What should my New Year’s resolution be?

June's stupid life

June weaves a tale

I saw a meme that read, “The time between Christmas and New Year’s, when you aren’t sure what day of the week it is and you’re full of cheese.”

That sums it up.

I did stick with my plan to try to go to new places all week.

First, I headed to a coffee shop downtown that’s always looked cute.

Closed. Stupid inconvenient Christmas.

So then Ned and I bowled. Technically, I’ve been there once, in January 2012, but it was the best I could do after my coffee-shop visit was thwarted.

The bowling experience was 100% stupid Ned. We walked in at 4, and the guy with the shoes–I don’t mean he wore shoes. He did. But he rented us bowling shoes. In case you’re unfamiliar with the exotic rules of bowling.

Anyway, the guy with the shoes said, “We’re having a special today: $10 per person unlimited bowling till the leagues get here at 5:30.”

Ned looked concernedly at the clock. “It’s an hour and a half, Ned. I think we can squeeze in a game.”

And squeeze in a game we did. We had (delicious) fries from the bar and Cokes from Columbian drug dealers. “Wow, it goes a lot faster with just two people,” said Ned, who bowls with his family, all 600 members, each year at Christmas in a tradition they call O Bowly Night, which you have to admit is clever.

Once our first stellar game (see below) was done,

Why do I try to compete in sports with Ned?

we bowled another. I’d bowled an impressive 77 and 96. Yes, I AM available to join your league. Then it was 5:00. I started taking off my bowling shoes to put on m’Uggs.

“What’re you DOING?” asked Ned, incredulous. “We still have half an hour!!”

And, see, I knew. You know how you know a person, and you know their annoying quirks and foibles and you anticipate them and get irked before they even do the thing? You know how that is? Ned has to


every ounce of life out of every situation. He doesn’t have fear of missing out. He has HORROR of missing out. No party will end without Ned still there, raising the roof. No animal at the zoo will go unwatched till said animal clocks out in exhaustion. No the-outcome-is-obvious sporting event will be left until the Zamboni machine glides past to clean the ice and the arena is cleared. Doesn’t every sports event end in a Zamboni? Asked the person from Michigan.

“Goddammit, Ned,” I said. “I’ve hauled 8 pounds of ball down an alley 40 times now.”

We bowled a third goddamn game. Sometimes I want to punch Ned. Then he’d be the very last one to leave the emergency room.

Yesterday, after I took down Christmas, removed every single last thing out of the old bins (found a pizza receipt from 2009. I musta ordered pizza to keep up m’decorating strength that year), cleaned them out, then categorized each bin’s contents. One has all the linens and so forth. One has all the breakable ornaments. There was one bin that was almost entirely reindeer statues. I do love a reindeer statue. Sparkly ones. You know me.

Bin there. Done that.

After I did all that and hated self and life and hauled each damn tub to the garage and hated self and life more, after that, I went to the mill.

As you know, from your Big Book of June’s Cats, I recently purchased a mill house for $4. Because I am a financial genius, I decided this was a smart move. This hood is right near two mills that had been closed for decades, putting the mill houses near them in decline, but now they’re both being renovated with apartments and shops and restaurants, and my theory is the property around it will begin to shine again.

Meanwhile, crack is so convenient! No more traipsing to the edge of town, you’re ON the edge of town!

My neighborhood is on the national register of historic places, as is my vagina.

Anyway, I fell in love with the house cause it’s so cute and was in great shape and I knew the owner–a thing I hadn’t known till I’d made my first offer, but still. It helped solidify my obsession with it. I mean, I literally fell in love. I got all tingly and my-blood-is-carbonated-y.

The point is, the mill that’s already done is less than a mile from me and it’s lovely. It has shops I’ve never visited and so that was my trip to someplace I’d never been yesterday.

Everyone who lives there works as an actor at Pixar.

The shop I sought out, a place where you get to create your own scented soaps and candles (“Yes, I’d like ‘Mask the multiple animals scent,’ please.”) was closed.

Stupid inconvenient Christmas.

But! BUT!


I cozied up to the security guard, as I’d been walking about looking at all the other shops and workplaces and art.

This is not the security guard. This is art.
Also not the security guard. This is someone’s office I creepy-crawled.

The security guard showed me THE MILL HISTORY MUSEUM in the building and oh my god, it was so cool!!!

What also happened here: fine photo cropping.


I don’t know what this is but I LOVE the color. Apparently it makes the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ man-part socks.
This is right near me! That sign is still there!
I operated all these yesterday. Lost 12 fingers and made a quilt.
Of all the cotton-pickin’…
YOU’RE a picker dropping.

Anyway, they also had phones you could pick up to hear recordings of folks who used to live near and work in the mill. IT WAS SO COOL.

It was so spool! I’ll be here all week. Full of cheese.
I shuttle to think of how many puns Ima come up with.

Anyway, they had a map on the wall, and the lights shining through it made it impossible to photograph, but THERE WAS MY LITTLE STREET. “June Gardens lives here.”

And? AND?

You guys, that could be my kitchen.

Oh, I want to see a whole mill house in photos. These are all built just the same, so if I see one, it’d be just like seeing mine. Also, I want that Hoosier cabinet so bad, I do.

Also, on display? They had this…

In all, it was a fruitful trip to the mill. I milled around.

Hey, did you get my text[ile]?


June's stupid life

Emily Post-Christmas Rundown

I really need to stop adding someone’s name to the rest of my titles.

Christmas is over!! It was the first happy thought I had when I awoke. “It’s over, Edsel!” I said. Eds was actually in the bed, resting on the other pillow, when I woke up today. Ever since my mother gave him that really good dog bed in November, he hasn’t deigned to sleep with me.

Edz bedz toooo gud, mom.

Anyway, Christmas. It’s over. Did I say that already? It’s just so wonderful! However, I’ll run down what I did, and maybe you can tell me what you did, and be sure to use lots of names I never heard before. “Well, Johnson and me, we went to the chapel with Barf and Jojo…”

If that’s your Christmas story, you might want to look into new friends in the new year.

In keeping with my idea of trying something new in Greensboro every day this week, I went to a little boutique in my marginal neighborhood on Xmas Eve. Since this hood is, oddly, rich-people adjacent, there is a street of cool shops that never quite stay in business, but are great while they exist. I didn’t buy that bird necklace but I liked it.

Gee, why don’t these shops stay in business?

I was also out because I’d threatened to kill my mother. I was planning to make my traditional Xmas lasagna and I couldn’t find where I’d unpacked my recipe box, so I called old mom, there, for the recipe. Old Reliable.

I bought all the ingredients, PER MOM, on the 23rd, and then?

On the 24th?

I realized she’d failed to tell me that it called for oregano, lasagna did. Careful readers will note back in 2010 when I cleaned out my spice cupboard and had, like, 47 jars of oregano. Isn’t it ironic. Don’t you think.

My blog post in 2010. God I’ve done this forever.

Aw. That post was about Peg. Everyone’s dead. MERRRRRRY CHR–oh, good. It’s over. I don’t have to pretend to be cheerful anymore.

Anyway. I called my mother and threatened her life (“Isn’t oregano something everyone just has on hand?” asked mom, who has never met her daughter, it’s the oddest thing), then WENT TO THE STORE ON CHRISTMAS EVE, and?

Is there some goddamn oregano fest in town? Jesus.

Fortunately, I found some, like, organic $700 oregano in the $700 organic aisle. Also, at the store, I saw four groups of people recognize each other in the store, and there was much hugging and “I can’t wait to tell mom I ran into you”-ing and it was all very Dan Fogelberg.

In the evening, I headed over to my friends Ian and Adriana’s house. We here in boring America pronounce it “EEEE-YON,” but his family says it “Yon,” which sounds better.

Careful readers (who hates me at this point? Answer: All of you.) will note I spent Christmas Eve with YON and Adriana two years ago, as well. That dog was found by Ian late one night back in Puerto Rico when he was a puppy. The dog was a puppy, not Ian.

Anyway, he woke his then-new bride up to say, “I found a dog.” Ian did, not the puppy.

Now their oldest kid is 15, (Ian and his wife, not his wife and the pupp–oh, never mind) if that tells you how old that poor dog is. I was glad he was still there this year.

“Are you and Ned on or off?” asked Adriana. The way we got to know them, see, is not only did I use to work with YON, but he and Adriana also used to live right next door to Ned in his downtown apartment. So we double knew them.

“We’re off, but I am meeting Ned and his mom for dinner tonight,” I told her.

“I know it’s politically incorrect, but I prefer it when you two are on,” she said. I’ve always like Adriana and her boldness. Also? Her mother, who was there, is to DIE for. Just one of those charismatic women you want to be best friends with, and it turns out she’s good friends with my pal Kit! (Who isn’t? Everyone loves Kit.)


After that, I headed to the nicest hotel in town (George Bailey, the richest man in town), where Ned and his mom had decided to go eat, and one thing I can assure you is no one else had that idea. Good GRAVY. I overheard a waitress saying 600 people had made reservations there that night.

Aren’t people supposed to be at home with family, and aren’t restuarants supposed to be empty and dismal, with only lone truckers at them on Christmas Eve?

Ned’s mom has the good hair. I wonder if Ned and my child would have had my bad hair or a nervous condition.

After Ned’s mom left, Ned and I had champagne in the lobby. There was a young pretty girl with another party in the lobby, and she had on this backless champagne-colored velvet dress, and THREE TIMES I saw her breast as she leaned over, and every time I’d alert Ned, he missed it. “I had a chance to see it when I walked past her, and I turned my head to be gentlemanly, and right after thought, ‘What the hell is wrong with me?'”

Ian (YON) and I took one picture and it’s beautiful. I took 407 trying to get Ned to look NOT like a murderer and this was the best I could do.

Christmas dawned with me asleep because I don’t have any damn kids to wake me at dawn. Christmas 9:30’d and I was up, opening some perfect gifts.

My Aunt Mary told me my uncle saw this and said, “Oh, this is June.”

This year, I got three robes, pajamas, a coffee cup and two bedspreads, because everyone has finally accepted that Ima stay home.

Also, why do I have a goddamn kitten every goddamn Christmas?

Milhous was obsessively leaping from box to box, and finally Lily thought, “lileee leap two” and she hoisted herself off the couch, where she’s been since September, tried jumping into a box but could not lift her girth, fell backward like an otter and went back to her spot on the couch.


I had Christmas dinner with Chris and Lilly and their other friends and family, and their home is so lovely and they’re such grownups. See below.

The food was delicious, and one of Lilly’s friends is a baker, and I got to take home some of his chocolate caramel popcorn he made, and I’m sorry to tell you half of it is mysteriously gone. [UPDATE ONE HOUR LATER: popcorn is gone. Someone alert the authorities.]

Anyway, that was Christmas, and OOOO, lemme show you my gift bag that my gifts from Chris and Lilly came in.

Oh my god, I love that gift bag. I saved it in the closet like an old lady. “Like” an old lady.

WordPress’s new editing feature doesn’t tell you how many words you’ve typed, but I feel like the answer is four thousand ninety-two.

However, just as I was wrapping this up, so to speak, Eds started barking, and I realized, right then I knew, a package had come for me. It’s from Faithful Reader Paula! Let’s open it together, shall we?

Ohmygod, look how tidily she wraps. The bottom of the deer lines up with the top. In a million years I’d never achieve this.


Some of my romance magazines! Oh my god, I adore these. Now I won’t go anywhere or do anything till I’ve read both cover to cover. I can’t wait to slip on my herringbone bikini and read how to satisfy boys.

Merrrrrrrry Christm–whatever.


June's stupid life

Christmas Eve Plumb

I was doing my stuff (cleaning litter boxes) and preparing for Christmas (cleaning litter boxes) when it occurred to me it’s a Monday, not a weird endless Saturday like it’s felt for days, and that I should probably write you.

Really, all my chores and outings currently are just an ends to getting to sit down and watch another episode of Poldark.

It’s not even that good. It’s the same plot over and over. There’s this one arrogant guy, see, who hates Poldark.

Poldark do be suk.

And the plot is, the arrogant guy tries to do something to destroy Poldark and then it looks really bad for Poldark and then Poldark takes off his shirt


and then Poldark prevails in the end, sort of, and then the arrogant guy looks down his nose at Poldark, sort of defeated.

Sometimes that plot takes an entire season. Sometimes it’s one episode. In the meantime, everyone stares off a cliff into the water and their hair blows about.

Wind do be suk

And yet? I’ll say to Edsel, “We got everything done. Wanna watch another episode of Poldark with me?” and he always does.

Meanwhile, I have all next week off. I’ve got two Christmas Eve Plumb plans tonight and two Christmas Doris Day plans tomorrow, but other than that I am free. FREE! I will cost you nothing.

I made a deal with self that all this week, on days it isn’t a holiday, I will go somewhere new in Greensboro. Check out the sights.

On Saturday, I tried the all-wigs-all-the-time beauty supply store with my pal Jo.

Photo credit: Jo
Photo credit: Also Jo
Photo credit: Continuing to be Jo

I got concealer, foundation that was a bust, green red-correcting primer, sparkly copper cream eyeshadow, mascara, three kinds of nail polish (two of them MOOD nail polish) and sparkly pink lip gloss — OH! and an eyebrow gel.

Amount spent: $38.

Oh yes, I will be back.

They had lots of products there for (usually) African American hair but according to my Curly Girl support group, this product above will also work on angry Irish curly hair such as my own. I’d heard of all these brands but could never find them in my white-girl beauty supply stores. So now I know where to go next time I, say, run out of gel, a thing I JUST DID, but I’d already ordered a GIANT TUB of my regular gel, when just down the street was this stuff that people insist is even better. Dammit. Now I gotta WAIT and DELAY my gratification and instant gratification takes too long.

June. Now with dog paws!

Here’s me last night in full-on pajamas but with my green corrector, concealer, new eyeshadow, new brow gel and new mascara. My face cost less than $38.

Anyway, that was Saturday.

On Sunday, I went to my old movie theater to see It’s a Wonderful Life with Ned, not that that’s the whole name of the movie. Afterward, we went to Crafted Taco, which, okay, I’d been to before years ago but in a different location. So I tried the new location in a bigger space downtown.

Adventure June

It looks empty in there, but really it was packed.

Everything’s so crowded right now that everywhere I go, I think, How long till I run into someone I know? I ran into this woman from work with her husband at the grocery store, and they were buying a frozen pizza and wine for their Christmas Eve Eve Plumb (I have to stop saying that) dinner.

They are my people.

Also and at some point during this endless what-seems-like-a-constant-Saturday, I made me a thermos of hot chocolate (I had to physically go out and buy a thermos, but now I have a thermos and you never know when I’ll need to bring my lunch pail and thermos to my new factory job or what have you) and went to see the balls.

There’s this neighborhood here in Greensboro that hangs these lit balls from all the trees, and photos from an iPhone do not do it justice. It’s just spectacular.

Photo credit: Some real photographer online. It shows you a little better how lovely it is.

If you’re thinking of coming to Greensboro for a June Tour, and you come at Christmas and want to see the lights in this neighborhood, here is a tip from June: Crawling along this neighborhood behind the eleven million other cars also looking at the lights while also drinking hot chocolate from your new thermos results in having to pee really bad while stuck in festive crawling traffic.


It would be smarter to bring a festive salt lick.

Anyway, that’s m’Christmas so far, and today Ima try the little boutiques near me, see if any of ’em are open, maybe pick up a few hostess gifts and so on for the places I’m headed. I like to think I’m gift enough but perhaps that is not a universal emotion.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Unless you don’t celebrate it. In that case, have yourself a merry little Monday. Oh my god it so does not feel like a Monday.


June's stupid life

Love languages

Tomorrow, Ima see my friend Jo, and it got me thinking about women and friendships and love languages and why I prefer men. No offense, Jo. (In case you didn’t click on the link that I placed on her name, up there, in case you just stampeded along this post and picture Jo with a giant man part swinging, Jo is, in fact, a girl.)


I adore Jo. We met when she sent me her book years ago, along with a note saying she read my blog and that we were kindred spirits or soulmates or would I like to see her giant swinging member or something. I don’t recall. I didn’t save the note, and of course now I wish I had.

For probably a year I didn’t read her book; I was very busy getting divorced. But one lonely afternoon I opened it, and I realized she was right and we were kindred spirits and I wished she’d sent nudes.

So I–I don’t know–called her or emailed her or something, because next thing you know we were friends.

Jo has lived all over the place and was a DJ in New York City. She’s met the Bee Gees AND Howard Stern. If she’d met Laura Ingalls Wilder I’da have to’ve married her.

That was seven or eight years ago, and in that time, Jo has moved maybe 60 miles away. But when she lived here, I went to all her BookUps. (Every month, at some restaurant or coffee shop, she’d hold a BookUp, where people would gather, bring a book, say a perfunctory hello to one another, and read. The very first picture I have of Ned and me was taken by Jo, at one of her BookUps. Both of us huge readers, Ned and I never read a word cause we liked each other so bad. I’m sure the other BookUp attendees wanted to kick our asses.)

(photo credit, Jo)

Anyway, I also went to all her future book-readings and hello-I’m-an-author events, attended her parties–once all the dang way to her new place 60 miles away, on New Year’s Day, all hung over.

I went to her brother’s funeral and to her yard sale.

I showed UP for things, is the point.

And that is my love language–time. That’s why I drove all the way to Michigan for my ex-boyfriend Steve’s father’s funeral, even though I hadn’t seen Steve since 1996.

That’s why I flew to Seattle when Paula had breast cancer.

I mean, that’s my thing. I show up. Or I try to, anyway, and I feel terrible if I fail.

But while I’ll always show up, I will not bring a gift. It just doesn’t occur to me. I’m leaving work, screaming home and feeding everyone, leaving my house again 7 minutes later, driving to your thing and spending an evening with you even though I’m exhausted and will have to cram all my nightly chores into one sweaty 45 minutes when I get home.

I’m not stopping off at Charming Charlie’s and getting you a bobble as well. It just never even dawns on me.

So when I saw Jo at her latest book reading, she had a really cute necklace on that her other friend had bought her, and it was PERFECT for the theme of her new book. I mean, I can’t imagine how long it took her friend to find something like that.

“That necklace is so cute,” I said to Jo. “I never think to get gifts.”

“I know,” she said.

And right then I knew.

I’m not sure that all that showing up means nothing to Jo, but it didn’t mean as much as it would had I gotten her lava lamp from Rite Aid on the way. For gifts are her love language.

And while I said earlier that I prefer men because they aren’t as … concerned with stuff when you’re friends with them (my whole friendship with Hulk: “Hey.” “Hey.” “Fuck you.” “Asshole.” “Okay, bye.”), they still have goddamn love languages.

Back when I liked Ned and we were living together, he left for work every day before 8, stayed till 6, then almost every night went to the gym after, THEN he’d go to the grocery store and come home and cook something


like, boil-the-beans scratch

and THEN at like 9:30, be ready to talk to me. I go to bed at 10:30.

See. Time. That’s my love language. This drove me berserk. And he’d be all, “But I get up every morning and feed your dogs for you. I change the litter boxes before you’re awake. I swept all the floors and WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?”

He really couldn’t see it. Acts of service were his love language.

And Marvin. Oh my god. Touch was his love language.

Marvin was on me like a barnacle 24 hours a day. I’ve tried to find this one picture and can’t, but it’s us at some event — maybe my stepsister’s rehearsal dinner. Anyway, I’m talking to my friends and there’s ol’ Marvin, standing behind me, LAYING HIS FOREHEAD on my shoulder while I TALK TO PEOPLE.

Even now I want to jump out of my skin. I think touch is my very last love language. Get in, do your business, get back to me in a day or two.

I wonder why I’m single.

The point is, knowing this helps you tolerate people when you don’t fucking understand them.

What’s your love language? What’s your person’s love language? How does it screw you guys up? Do you know each other’s and make up for it? Once I understood Ned’s, I tried hard to empty the dishwasher and make biscuits and so on. I remember standing in that kitchen early on a Saturday making goddamn biscuits.

And by the way, Jo and I are going makeup shopping tomorrow at this beauty supply near my house that she tells me is fabulous.

I got her a little gift.

June's stupid life

June’s major purchases

Last night, I went to our outdoor mall five days before Christmas. Hey, let’s send this Hindenberg up. And other good ideas.

I needed a calendar.

I also needed wrapping paper.

At said outdoor mall, there were literally traffic police in the road with whistles. Two of them, on one road, directing traffic. I ran them both over.

I HAVE wrapping paper, is the real rub, but it’s in this chest, and by that I don’t mean my ample bosoms. I mean it’s in this wooden sort of hope chest that belonged to my great-aunt Wa, who was underrated. She was hilarious, but not where’s-the-lampshade hilarious.

My point is, I can’t get it open, the chest. I really can’t. I’ve pushed and I’ve poked and I’ve sworn at it. In fact, my whole life lately has been one big dead end. I can’t get on any of my utility websites to pay my bills (FUCK YOU, DUKE ENERGY), and when you call they say, “For 24-hour service, visit us at Inept Utility Website dot com!”

I can’t go five minutes at work without being interrupted. And even the interrUPtion makes me lose my train of thought. Even if I say, “Hang on, I’ll talk to you when I’m done,” I go back and can’t remember what I was doing.

Everything ends in frustration lately.

So when I couldn’t open the damn cedar chest, I said forget it, I’ll just go get more wrapping paper at the not-at-all-chaotic outdoor mall. I don’t know why I keep calling it the “outdoor mall,” which must make you think of people in Calcutta selling their wares on blankets.

This is what I mean. That you have to leave one store, go outside, and get to another store, rather than Ye Olde ’70s Closed-In Mall like I grew up with.

Anyway, I went to the Hallmark store and to the Barnes & Noble, and got me some wrap-ass-fucking-paper. It has point-fucking-settias on it. Merrrrrrry Christmas!

Oh, suck it.

At the Barnes & Noble, I am delighted to tell you that I got an overpriced notebook, because I use them all the time as a migraine diary, a place where I write down all my GODDAMN PASSWORDS (FUCK YOU, DUCK ENERGY), and so on.

Look how cute! And it’s the color I like. I think they think Ima use it as a bullet journal, and if there’s anything I 100% don’t get how to do, it’s a bullet journal. Have you ever watched one of those How to do a Bullet Journal videos? Oh my god.

I tried to find you one on YouTube just now, but I refuse to put any video on my blog that starts out, “Hey, guys!”


Bullet journal people are exactly “Hey, guys!” people.

But then while I was up in Barnes & Noble, I shopped for a calendar. And that, 87 paragraphs later, is where we started this journey.

First of all, Barnes & Fucking Noble, what the fuck? They used to have them on shelves, and this year they were crammed into this thing and onto an equally inconvenient shelf. To look at any calendar, you had to risk the whole thing toppling on you and what a stupid way to die THAT would be. “She died of calendars.”

Picking a calendar is big for me. This year I tried to go without and I forgot eleventy-thousand birthdays. I need it in front of me, in advance. My calendar needs are strong.

The pictures matter a lot. And I know people think because I like cats I want stuff with cats on it, but I don’t.


But beyond the kibosh on cats or puppies, I need a calendar with big squares for each day, a view of the previous and next month, and the phases of the moon.

It’s a whole undertaking. And a yearlong commitment.

A calendar of all my mom’s boyfriends circa 1976. Yeah, no.
For you, tiny asses. Namaste.

This one was so…fucking soothing. I don’t wanna look at a stack of rocks all of March.

Too photographic. Maybe had these been drawings. Aren’t you glad you weren’t with me? Aren’t you delighted you kind of are?

I don’t wish to brag, but I wrote this one.

I mean, maybe you could try for busy images next year. This is what it’s already like on the inside of my head. No, thank you.

In the end, even though that apostrophe is, in fact, incorrect, I went with the farmer’s [sic] market. The farmers don’t own the market. I’m on year 22 of being a copy editor. I’ve researched this. Trust me.

So those were my major purchases, and I’ve another one coming up…

I sold my house in July, four days after I listed it, and my closing date was September. My whole goal in that interim was to use up as much of my shit as I could, and not buy more, which was great for moving but now I find myself out of baking soda and stuff you just assume you have “in the back.” “Look way in the back, isn’t it there?”

So I was 100% out of soap when I moved here, and had to run to Target on day one and buy a damn shower curtain and some damn soap before I could shower. I was under so much duress that I


purchased liquid soap.

I HATE liquid soap. I never feel sure that I’ve covered all my parts with it, it rinses so fast, and now I have this fear that since September I’ve not actually washed some part of me and any second now I’ll come down with gangrene.

And to make matters even worse, I bought TWO of them. Two! Why? When I know I hate liquid soap.

The good news is I’m almost done with the second bottle, and I’ve been strong and persevered, and soon I can buy bar soap like a normal person and wash away the gangrene.

That about sums it up for major purchases, and I hope you’ve enjoyed this hard-hitting day of Book of June. I wrote this whole thing with Iris on my lap.


June's stupid life

June speaks of nothing

Every day when I get on here, I open up the Book of June page, and in my version there’s a white button in the upper-right-hand side of the page that reads, Write. (See below.)Screen-Shot-2018-12-19-at-7.13.25-AM.pngThat’s the button I click to start a new post.

Every single day, when I click that button, I hear Nettie from The Color Purple screeching,


It’s hard to live in my head.

But speaking of writing, we didn’t even notice my 12th year of blogging not blogging came and went on the 15th. That was the day I had my last delightful migraine, so.

Anyway, it’s been a weird dozen years, but weird in a good way.

For one thing, when I talk to people I know, and I start telling a story, sometimes I see the look in their eyes where they already know this story because apparently they read my not-a-blog, but they also don’t want to be rude and stop my delivery of said tale.

Then there’s the part where someone I know really well doesn’t read it and I hate to be a terrible person


but geez, really?

For example, Ned and I had been dating two years when I finally got the nerve to tell him it made me feel terrible that he didn’t read me. He saw reading my blog as intrusive. But once I, you know cried, he read it every day, till we broke up and he never read it again. And I believe him, too. I know women would be ALL OVER their ex’s blog, but he is not.

Let’s smoke him out if he is.

Hey, Ned, Cormac McCarthy sucks.

Hey, Ned, anyone ever tell you that you look a lot like Donald Trump?

Man, are Duke basketball sorts of things ever great. Go, Duke things. And also that other blue team, whoever the hell they are. They rock. (I do actually like their shade of blue.)

Sports talk, with June.

Oh my god what was I talking about. Oh! Blogging. Yes.

Also, the other weird thing about blogging is people have few boundaries. Stalking seems more and more acceptable now. People kind of joke about it. Oh, I internet stalked her. I’ve had the oddest things happen. People at my house, people at my work, and I’m not even a famous blog not blogger. Imagine the shit The Nester sees.

But in all, I’m glad I’ve done this on and off for the last 12 years. Those months I wasn’t blogging not blogging this year, my mornings were lovely and peaceful and I wasn’t screaming to get the cats fed and the dog let out and showered so I could write. That part was nice. But the not writing part sucked.

hooo care


So, it’s almost stupid Christmas. Does anyone else hate Christmas or is it just me? (This poll didn’t TELL me that “Other” would be an option, but we can’t see any comments you might make, so please don’t pick “Other” unless you wish to leave a real comment below saying why.)

Finding out how to embed polls has made me late for work, so I’m off.



June's stupid life

June’s humor continues to be modern

Do you wake up with dread? I do. Every morning. I have no idea why. But my first thought when I wake up is always, Oh good LORD, now what?

If anyone just wakes up happy, I’d like to know your secret beyond, Well, I married rich.

IMG_1006.jpegI’ve had a fairly chaotic week already.

The guy next door had a cat and a girlfriend. One is gone, and the other remains. He did not want the cat, and here’s the irony. When I moved in here, that cat was just a kitten, a calico kitten, and I coveted her mightily. She was so cute.

Then I got Milhous.

Anyway, the guy next door did not want the cat, and I’ve been deflea-ing it all along, and I’ve been giving him food to give the cat lately, but he was really looking to get rid of it. So on Sunday, I took it to the shelter for him, as he does not have a car. See previous mentions–mentions, prvs.–re marginal neighborhood.

IMG_0995 2.jpeg

Oh, it liked to KILL me, taking her there. I mean, at least now she’ll get her shots, and she’ll find a good home, and so on.

On Sunday night, there was a knock at my door. There is always a knock at my door in this neighborhood, and does anyone have a cure for that? Because I can’t relax in my house for even one lunch hour or evening.

Anyway, it was the cat guy. He missed his cat and felt like he made a mistake.

So three times yesterday I tried to call that DAMN shelter, and they never answer their phones, and they never called me back.

When I got home last night, the guy next door was in my yard, raking my leaves with the guy in my hood who regularly rakes my leaves. I have a large tree. It takes two, I guess.

“I called three times about your cat,” I said.

He also doesn’t have a phone. See above re marginal hood.

“Oh, they can keep it,” he said.

So that was emotionally exhausting.

mill howse feel sort of smug now. also, tows verreee cleen.

Also, I worked like a demon yesterday, a DEMON 404 error, and I had to dash home, get something to eat (leftover chicken pie and a spinach salad. I still fear romaine), and scream to the theater because Miracle on 34th Street was playing. I figured Ned would be there but I got to the theater a half-hour early because I knew there’d be crowds.

I live in a new neighborhood now, in case you hadn’t heard that, and I’m like Faithful Reader Paula when she was moving some years back and all of her comments were about moving.

Anyway, the point is, I have to take a new way to get to my old theater because I live in the opposite direction from there now.

This is like my old photography

That meant I got to see our pretty depot, which always reminds me of when I took possibly still FR Laurie, who used to live here, to the train station early one morning. I took Edsel and Tallulah with me, and why did I do that? How obnoxious.

Anyway, Talu insisted on sitting on her and when she got out of the car, her entire pants were fur pants. I mean, she looked absurd.

You’re welcome! Any time!

IMG_1012.jpegI also passed Ned’s old apartment building. I used to show you those trees, there, when they were in bloom in spring.

Screen Shot 2018-12-18 at 7.38.19 AM
See? I act like finding this image was not Herculean.

This is like when you go to visit someone and they take you on a tour of boring things. “And here’s where I used to work. No, that building behind it.”

Anyway. Miracle on 34th Street was good, and oh! Look! I forgot!

IMG_1020.jpegSanta was at the theater! And he saw me! He waved! I had a total celebrity sighting.

I really have no idea what was up. My theory was he worked at Macy’s all day or something and just wanted to go to the damn movies after.

Anyway, I also saw Ned there, of course. I fekking knew he’d be there.

The real miracle would be if I ever stopped seeing damn Ned.

“Why do you always have to look like you’re headed to Cell Block H?” I asked, with my current references. Stay tuned for my jokes about tiddlywinks and sassafrass, consarn it.

There are Xmas movies at my old theater all week, and after a discussion about it in front of the theater last night, it would appear I will be seeing Ned at the old theater all week.


I don’t know that I ever actually even watched Cell Block H. But it kind of looks like Cell Block H was the Orange is the New Black of its time. Consarn it.

do yuu honist lee think you funnee?

Anyway, that sums up yesterday, including the part where I had to kick 40 animals off my bed before I could sleep. I leave you with this…


My LA friend, Cat, and her LA dog. Oh my god, this is my favorite Christmas card, ever. It looks Frida-esque to me.

Okay, I gotta go.


Liff. Goddammit.


In the kitchen with June · June's stupid life

In which June suggests it’s that time of the month for St. Francis

It’s Sunday night. Does 6:48 p.m. count as Sunday night? In 12 minutes, The Wonderful World of Disney would be coming on if this were real life, because 1973 is real life and I don’t know what the hell this is. Anyway, it would be coming on, and my mother would be preparing a Swanson’s TV dinner for me, and I’d mos def have the “It’s Sunday night” angst, so I say 6:48 p.m. counts as Sunday night.

If this were a Saturday at 6:48 p.m., it’d totally just be early evening.

Anyway, it’s Sunday and not 1973, and I do not have a Swanson’s dinner for myself.


Nor a Libbyland Sundown Supper, which I ate like it was good back then, and which I’m quite certain was devoid of the chemicals.

Seriously, what was WRONG with me? Why did I eagerly accept this slop? Is that a person’s liver? 

I did, however, just now prepare another large pot of pumpkin chili to last me this week, and I used Libby brand pumpkin, as it was on display at the Ghetto Lion grocery store I now go to in my new marginal hood. It was up there with the pie crust and whipped cream, and I suppose it’s someone’s whole job to make those little displays at the grocery store. “Here’s everything to make fruit salad.”

“Here’s all you need to make lasagna, in one convenient display.”

“Ass itch? Here are the ointments for you, plus a doughnut to sit on!”

They oughta have the “You’re single and you know it” display, where they sell 40s of malt liquor and Mallowmars. Videotapes of Sleepless in Seattle.

Anyway, last Thursday night, we had our work Christmas party.

“Yes, June, you already told us about that.”

No, I didn’t. That was the work Christmas party for the whole office. THIS was the work Christmas party for my department. The creative department. We’re the creatives. How much do you suppose everyone else hates our Fame, I’m Gonna Live Forever guts? Like, how annoying does accounting think we are, do you think?

IMG_0891.jpegWe had the party at a gallery downtown. So you could eat and drink, but then also shop for shit. In all, a perfect way to have a party.

And, like, let’s say all of a sudden you’re becoming an introvert when your whole life you were an extrovert and you’re all, Maybe she’s born with it, Maybe it’s clinical depression. You don’t know. All you know is everything is different all of a sudden. Let’s say the idea of going out now repels you when it used to compel you.

IMG_0889.jpegBut look! Here’s a party where you can leave the crowd and sniff soap!

IMG_0922.jpegAlso, I got to wander off with Lottie Blanco and Jane West, who every time we came across a gaudy sparkly item, they would say, “This looks like you, June.”

Hmpf. (Secretly wanted every sparkly gaudy item.)

Blue Moon. I saw you looking like the back of a bottlecap.

Anyway, eventually, I got into the swing of things. Then went home and crawled into ball for 72 hours.

Actually, I pretty much did. I went to work Friday, but awoke with a migrane that day. I blamed it on the




of wine I had Thursday. I really cannot drink at all anymore. Not even a drop. I get a migraine every time. I took a pill and the headache went away, mostly.

So then I ended up working late, and coming home and wisely having Chinese, which, by the way…

IMG_0996.jpeg…this can’t be good. Right? I mean, it’s been nice knowin’ ya.

Anyway, I went to bed at a reasonable hour and woke up Saturday with


migraine. Oh my god. It lasted ALL DAY. I stayed in bed all day long. I got up only to let the dog out and slap pet food in bowls.

IMG_0943.jpegThis gave the animals ample opportunity to observe me. I swear they have to report back to some sort of headquarters.

Edz calleeng Orson. Come ins, Orson.

Diss def nit lee go in report.

Eyeriss can’t see a fekking theng.

And because I know that EVEN WITH a 24-hour MIGRAINE I managed to photograph three of the pets, SOMEone will still be all, “Where’s Lily?”

Lillee a mom now. Go ‘way.

I think she loves Milhous.

Anyway, then today I had to cram in all the errands I meant to run all weekend into ONE DAY, and here it is now 7:08 p.m. and I’m all, Can I just get to the part where I can lie around and enjoy my own self today?

So Ima wrap this up, but before I can lie around and watch Poldark like it’s good, which it’s not but now I have to know what happens–though really I don’t care what happens, I just kind of want Poldark to take off his shirt. Before any of that, Ima make some avocado salad dressing that I read about that sounds good.

What you’re gonna wanna do is not add cilantro to that recipe. Because cilantro can suck it.

I don’t KNOW what’s up with me and the actual cooking lately. I’m like Rachel — no, I can’t even say that about myself. I love self too much to E-V-O-go there.

IMG_0990.jpegI leave you with this squirrel standing on St. Francis’s head, a thing St. Francis probably liked, unless he’s on the rag or had to get a lot done or something, in which case he’s probably all, Goddammit.

Yew going to hell wif mom, milhows.


I hate everything · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life

Mrs. June Butterworth takes her own sweet time

I didn’t MEAN to steal breakfast, but I did.

We had a thing at work where, if you brought in cans of food for the less fortunate, you got a free breakfast that they’d ordered in from somewhere. But, see, we had all these snow days and I literally didn’t leave my house for four days, see.

Not to mention you all know how I am.

So when I got to work Wednesday, of course I forgot to bring Unfortunate Cans. Of course I did.

But then everyone kept sallying forth all morning with their breakfast plates, plates with delicious breakfast food on it, plates they deserved because they didn’t forget to bring cans. I grabbed a packet of my depressing high-fiber oatmeal® and headed to the kitchen.

“Aren’t you going to have the breakfast?” my boss’s boss, fmr., asked me.

I told him I forgot to bring cans.

“Oh, I brought cans enough for both of us,” he said. “Go on down there.”

I mean, I know Gallant wouldn’t have gone on down there, but whoever said I was Gallant?


So I brazenly walked canless into the donate-your-cans room, and took me some french toast, and I realize God pursed his lips, okay? I know. I felt it.

I never think Ima like french toast until I HAVE french toast and mother of god is it delicious.

The unfortunate would also like french toast.–God

At 11:00, I had a doctor’s appointment, which is in a very fancy building with two-story-tall ceilings. I always feel like I’m going to a soap opera doctor, although never once has my doctor du jour taken me into her office to discuss my condition from behind her desk while I have on a suit jacket and skirt.

Anyway, after my appointment, I was leaving the doctor’s office and at the same time, across the fancy hall, a very hot age-appropriate man was leaving the offices of Erectile & Dysfunction or whatever. I actually have no idea what sort of old-guy-I-could-actually-date office he was leaving.

The Matlock Fan Club headquarters.

P. Pants & Co.

The FDR Lap Blanket Boutique.

The Old Spice outlet.

The point is, we exchanged glances. I smiled at him, and then he paused and smiled at me.

“I am so appealing,” I smugged, as I sauntered down the stairs. I mean, is there no end to my charisma?

When I told this story to my mother, it was at this point that she asked, “What did you do wrong?”

I’ll tell you what I did wrong.

When I got to my car and strapped m’seat belt on, I noticed I had




down my shirt, so much syrup that the top and the bottom of my shirt had actually gathered together, to form a little syrup pucker. We gather together to hear the lord’s disapproval.

There was an actual FOLD of syrup gluing my shirt together.


I had a syrup strip going all the way down one pant leg. A whole stripe, like I was in a ragtime band or something.

Actual portrait of me leaving the doctor. That bottle is syrup.

So unless that man has some kind of Aunt Jemima fetish, I think I’ve blown that one.


June's stupid life

Good heavens, Miss Sakamoto, you’re beautiful!

I never did make it to work after I wrote you last. The road in my neighborhood was too icy, so I worked from home. And, annoyingly, there was once again a ton of work. I literally worked from home.

And that is why I’m writing to you on Tuesday night. I still have much to do Wednesday morning, and I’m worried I’ll write for too long tomorrow and be late for work and miss my deadline.

To add to my angina, I have an 11:00 doctor’s appointment, so I really have to get my work done around that. I’m asking my doctor about that new migraine shot to see if I can try it. I called to see if I could just ask my doctor on the phone, but they were all No, you have to come in. THANKS.

I suppose I could have sneaked this all past you and just pretended I’m writing you on Wednesday morning. But what if I write my usual lighthearted and uplifting pith and set this to publish and then early Wed. morning The Wicked Witch flies through the sky with some ominous message and then there’s my post acting like nothing’s happened because for me nothing HAS happened yet but you wouldn’t KNOW that and you’d think I was insensitive.

“She never once mentioned that Dorothy is gonna have to surrender, not once in that whole post.”

No, I haven’t been smoking endo and sippin’ on gin and juice. I have no idea what’s wrong with me.

At the end of my work-from-home day today, I had an appointment to meet with the woman who owns my home, fmr. I called and told her I wasn’t sure if I could get out my neighborhood or not but if I could I’d be right over. Then I pulled on m’boots and trudged outside.

My front yard was pristine and I hated to ruin my snow look, but I did. It’s the kind of snow that has that layer of ice over top, so each step was


crash through.


crash through.

Oddly, my car did something I’ve never seen. This…dome of ice formed from the top of my roof to the front of my hood, like a snowglobe shape, and it covered my car but mostly didn’t touch the actual surface of my car. I got to pull the ice and snow off in large, thin icy chunks. It was really weird.

I’d planned to go out there and clean the car off, maybe warm it up, then go back in and change from the LUDICROUS ensemble I had on, which was fleece-lined yoga pants and a giant braless sweatshirt.

But have you met me? I forgot.

So I arrived at my old house

House, fmr.

looking like an EEEEEEDIOT.

I rang the bell and thought, Aw, there’ll be no bark when this doorbell rings. And then


There was a dog.

The owner of my house, fmr., has a beige shaggy dog who is cute, and he matches the walls, because she painted everything beige. “This is the same color it was when I moved in,” I told her.

She’d had the horrendous shed removed from the backyard, which is good, and she replaced the attic pull-down thingy, which is also good because it was never flush with the ceiling and I’m certain leaking cold.


She replaced the terrible concrete floor.


I managed to take a quick photo of it while, yes, looking like an


a braless eeeeediot, but it looks better. I mean, of course it looks better. That goddamn floor.

I thought it’d be really sad to be at my old house, but I wasn’t. I did get to see my old tree, my tree, fmr., in the backyard, as opposed to in the bathroom or whatever. I told her how when I moved out, I held it together till it was time to say goodbye to my tree.

Anyway, I got my mail, and my Amazon box that had come for me, which is why I went there. All the mail was super-scary stuff that came to the wrong goddamn address and Dear Post Office, What was the point of telling you my address had changed if you didn’t forward stuff to my, oh I don’t know, CHANGED ADDRESS?

There were bills there dating from September. There was mortgage and new insurance info there. I got all sorts of terrifying things that I thought I’d probably taken care of on my own even without a letter, but I wasn’t sure.

I was kind of sick till I got home and went through each letter and called or looked online to make sure everything is copasetic and I’m not sitting here with an uninsured house or car.


Anyway, I guess I’ve adjusted to my new house, and I’m not as sad about leaving my old house as I worried I’d be. Today I saw my neighbor two doors down whom I’ve not met. She was out shoveling. She waved at me, but I only saw the tail end and by the time I waved back she wasn’t looking anymore, so now she probably thinks I’m a fucking B.

Now Ima have to walk back and forth in front of her house like I’m picketing till she sees me and we can redo the wave.

I guess that’s all I have to tell you, other than since I’ve been snowed in and didn’t go anywhere from Saturday through Tuesday I did my end-of-the-year video. I tried to sneak it onto YouTube because according to what it shows there I have ONE subscriber, so I thought who’s gonna know I put it there.

Apparently six of you in the first half hour. That’s who. WHO ARE YOU? WHY ARE YOU CREEPING MY VIDEO?

So since six of you already saw it, here…

Talk to you in 2019. Or tomorrow. Whatever.

June's stupid life

June. She was annoyed.

It’s possible I’m the most irritable person on earth.


But something new irritates me and I want you to hang on to your hat.

Meghan Markle.

Stop it.



Oh my god, we know you’re pregnant. Everyone on planet Earth knows you’re effing pregnant. STOP. Put your HANDS down.

And I’d love to join crabby chatrooms about this but then I’m exposed to the words “baby bump” and “belly,” which also make me want to run screaming from the room.

Perhaps my tombstone might read: June. She was annoyed.

Can anyone recall all the things I’ve insisted be on my tombstone at this point? Maybe we can get one of those fold-out ones we’ve heard so much about. An expandable tombstone.

Speaking of expandable, I picked up Milhous today


Hey, good lookin’. Whatchu got on?

to weigh him, because I like to keep abreast. You know, just keep one handy in case one of mine falls off. Anyway, he’s not SCREAMING up the scale the way Steely Dan did when he was a kitten and they kept moving back his birth date. “We know we said he was born in July, but maybe he was born in May.”

He wasn’t.

Anyway, Milhous weighs 5 pounds, which for a five-month-old is fine. But when I first got on the scale with him this morning, after three days of eating chili and lying about reading, my first thought was that Milhous had gained a ton of weight. That he was turning into such a big boy!

He wasn’t.

For I placed him down and lumbered back on the scale and madre de dios. It’s not chili up in there, it a whole Chilean miner or something.

IMG_0851.jpegIt’s not storming here anymore, so we have work starting at 10:00 today, and who wants to place bets on me being late anyway? I have to give myself an hour and 40 minutes just to scrape the car.

You know, I HAVE a garage. Okay, it’s a 1932 garage, but it still works. Why did I not place my car in said garage when the storm was brewing? Think of how convenient that’d be. This is my first garage since I lived in Burbank circa 2006. I never parked my car in that, either.

Have garages just become storage sheds for all our crap? Why do we have so much crap? Why do we buy stuff and 10 months later it’s crap?

Anyway, speaking of Steely Dan, which I did seventeen paragraphs ago, the woman who owns my house, fmr., called me last night. She has the same first name as me.

“This is June who owns the house on [insert street name, fmr.].”

All of a sudden I got teary. Oh my god! Was Steely Dan back? I’d left her my number to call me for just that.

“An Amazon box came here for you,” she said.

I’m going there tonight to get it, and she told me about all the changes she made to the house, and I know you’ll all be “take pictures” and this is one of those occasions where you guys forget I’m a real person who will seem


if I do that.

Anyway, she’s replaced all of the floors, and I loved those floors, although she did also replace the terrible concrete floor with floating wood or Natalie Wood or something. Then she told me the house needs special drains because something was happening underneath, which the inspector didn’t catch, and that when the specialist came, he found

five cat carcasses

under my house.

“Maybe one of them is your cat,” she said, and that is pretty much when I wanted to scream and rip off my skin and fall to my knees and shout, “Not my Richie.”

What the hell?

There were five dead cats under my house?

Then I wondered if the guy was on the SIDES of the house and dug up Francis and Ruby. That didn’t occur to me till after we hung up. But why would you dig there?

Five dead cats? Please don’t let one be SD.

HOW DID THEY GET THERE, and why didn’t I HEAR them, and of all the things in the world why cats? Why couldn’t they have found Gwyneth Paltrow’s bones or something that wouldn’t have upset me? Why couldn’t they have found the bones of words like baby bump and snowpocalypse?

Oh. And while I’m being annoyed by things, here’s another one.

If you’re a good storyteller, you just progress the story. We don’t need you to say, “Fast forward to…”

Or, god forbid, “FLASH forward to.” Oh my god shut up.

Perhaps you wonder how it feels to spend your whole day in a lather.

And you already know my other thing, which is when someone tells a story and they say, “So he asked me, ‘You know what?’ and I said, ‘What?'”


Oh, crap, the guy across the street is 100% stuck in his driveway, spinning his tires. We are three blocks of dead ends followed by train tracks; no one is ever coming to plow this street. I wonder if I’ll be stuck, too?

The guy across the street has a sweet pale yellow El Camino, by the way. It’s really cool. But right now it’s one El stuck motherfucker.

I’d better go. I might could be in for a struggle. I will not say anything about a struggle being real.


June's stupid life

Please don’t say “Snowmageddon”

My eternal debate: Remove color-clashing alarm sign and risk death and sodomy so my house front looks better?

There are two kinds of people during a snowstorm: Junes and Neds.

When I found out we were getting a foot of snow, I was delighted. I got a bunch of stuff to make pumpkin chili, and some white grape juice because I have a white grape juice ISSUE, and also some orange Milanos that are mysteriously gone already.

I stayed up late looking for the first snowflake, then slept only six hours because I was too excited to sleep. I LEAPED out of bed and squealed at our 11 inches, and stop already, seventh-grader. Then I made a list of things I wanted to get accomplished since I was snowbound, and I did them.

(Inside-out dresses mean less cat fur when I finally put them on. What I am is appealing.)

I wrote my Christmas cards.

fuq it cowld

I also frolicked with my dog, who apparently has zero Husky in him because he is not appreciating falling through the ground with every icy step. Also, when he tried to drop anchor (TM LaUral), he had serious difficulty. Everywhere he went was icy. 

I’ve figured out why his tooth isn’t falling out. I’ve been observing it. When he eats or plays with Blu, those bottom teeth stick out so far that he doesn’t really use them. So there’s nothing to make that tooth go. And if I try to touch it he writes his Congressman.

Anyway, I kept self busy all day and was DELIGHTED when I heard more snow and ice are coming. Like, for me, this is as good as it gets. No one expects me to do a damn thing. I can hole up here and eat chili all I want.

Then there’s Ned. And the people like Ned.

Oh my god, Ned is bored.

“I wish I’d ridden my bicycle Saturday, knowing this storm was coming,” kvetched Ned, in his first of 47 calls to me yesterday. “Maybe I’ll go out and take a walk in this.”

Take a walk. In the foot of snow with its icy layer for added crunch. For HER pleasure.

And you know what he did? He took a walk.

“I actually just did some work,” Ned said, in call number 104. Meanwhile, whenever the phone rang I was all WHAT, because I could not have been more content in my cozy home with my books (finished one, started another) and my Christmas cards and my organizing. I even started my end-of-the-year blog video!

Today no one has to go to work, but now with stupid technology we all have to “work from home.” I have two meetings this morning and I already looked at some bluelines.

That doesn’t mean I just stared at a blue line. It’s when something is at the printer and it’s REALLY DONE and REALLY SUPER READY to be printed, so I get one more look at you, as Kris Kristofferson would say, before it goes to print and if I find a mistake it’s like $50 per mistake we have to pay and guess what?

Just like Kris Kristofferson, when I take one more look at you, I find a flaw. Always. Every time. It’s like my psychology is different once it’s a blueline and I find something I didn’t see before. They should just lie to me and tell me the first round is a blueline and I’d find everything wrong straight away.

I think if Sir Leslie Ward, up there, is so bored, he could teach himself how NOT to take an old-man selfie. A grumpie. A curmudgeonlie.

Anyway, I just got something to review and WHY CAN’T WE HAVE A REAL SNOW DAY? Would that be so bad? God. I gotta move somewhere like Spain where they never do anything but drink wine and have bullfights and sleep for three hours in the afternoon. Step one: Learn Spanish. Step two: Develop a taste for olives. Don’t they eat a lot of olives in Spain?

I’ll talk to you later. I’ll talk to Ned before I talk to all of you, though, I’ll bet.

Snow June

June's stupid life

Special Snowy Sunday…Sost. I wanted to be alliterative.

St. Francis has a snow collar. Or a ghost is ass-raping him. One or the other. Happy Sunday! Merrrrrrry Christmas!

It’s snowing here.

wat fuk?

Depending on what weather app you look at, we’re going to get anywhere from 8 to 194 inches. They’re telling us to stay home, because while this is just a day in March in Michigan, here they don’t know what to do with themselves and fall over in a panic.

So I made a list of shit I want to do during the storm while I’m homebound. While I’m a shut-in. Which, let’s face it, is just a day in March for me. But because I HAVE to stay in, I made a to-do list. First on that list is Morris Chestnut.

I also put down “do all laundry,” and I’m just washing my very last load as we speak.

Then I have my Christmas cards ready to write out next. If I’d taken my Adderall I’d be done with the cards by now, but just a moment ago I saw two wadded-up hang-to-dry shirts on the washer, their hangers three inches away. Apparently, the siren song of Anything Else called me away before I could take those 17 seconds and actually hang my hang-to-drys.

But the point of me writing you today, why I’ve gathered you all here, is that another thing on my Adderall-free snowed-in list is to finally figure out what the


to do with my shoes. I’m hoping some of you more organized folk can offer advice. Yes, I just asked for advice.

Here’s the setup: This house has 1,000 square feet, and some cool jazzy feet, as well. Bah. No, really. Small 1932 house. It has one weird useless closet in the bedroom where I store my laundry basket because it’s the only place to hide said basket.

There are two giant closets in the den

which have rendered the room mostly useless because the walls are closets. In this closet are all my winter coats, and sweaters and shirts for winter. On the floor are things like a fan, throw pillows I don’t use, my luggage and other odds and ends.

I have pants, summer shirts and dresses AND SHOES in this closet below. The space in the middle I use for sheets and bedspreads. This is the only place I could think of for my shoes, which I have dumped out to show you.

The weird useless closet in my bedroom really needs to hide my laundry basket and Morris Chestnut. IN MY MIND. But really, if I don’t put it there you see the laundry basket in my room and that’s depressing for the tens of men who are in there.

Here is all the other storage space in the house…

There’s also my hope chest in the den; it holds heavy blankets and it’s a pain in the ass to get into and I find myself not getting the blankets out because pain in the ass.

So, my MAIN GOAL is to find somewhere to put my shoes where they’re not just piled up like drunk sorority girls at night’s end. But if you can think of ways to organize where I have everything in a better way, let me know that too.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. I have to go write Xmas cards now, and go out to my yard with a yardstick like some sort of nincompoop. Last time I was out there, we’d gotten seven inches. I hope we get Morris Chestnut 12 inches, which is what he has going


Keep June’s mind occupied. Give her some hints on where to put all her stuff.

All work and no play make June a dull girl

Update: I cleared out some of the bedroom drawers and put the sheets in there. I also moved the socks that are in the living room into the bedroom. So now my bedroom has the joy of socks. And the pièce de résistance? I used that middle thing for shoes!

June's stupid life

June and her ADD get ready for a party

Every year, at Christmas, my workplace has its annual holiday party.

How much do you hate me for that redundant-ass sentence up there? I should really write a book.

Last night was my workplace Christmas party, and yes they call it “Christmas party,” as opposed to when I lived in LA and it was the annual gathering of winter or something we could all agree on.

They let us go at 3:00, because the party started at 5:00 at the country club, which by the way is fancy. It’s one of the fancy country clubs, not the dodgy country clubs you go to.

The point is, we were allowed to leave early so we could get our families ready and so on, and I know you’re wondering right now how does June do it all, with the high-powered executive career and her many children who are always turned out in their Christmas finery on the regular. Annually. At Christmas. Every year.

New glasses who dis. I need to get past that line.

The first thing I did after work was scream over to the glasses store, because my new not-worm-color glasses were in, which 15 times now I typed “gasses.”

Do you know what annoys me? On Instagram, when you read the comments, and someone comments about how they either misread something or thought a celebrity was their friend.

“I misread that as dick ass!”

“I thought this photo of Clark Gable was you, @myfriendisanasshole!”

Who gives a FUCK what you thought if it was wrong. Other than you and old Clark Lookalike, your close friend, who probably didn’t want to be tagged.

Merry Christmas!

After I got my glasses, my gasses, I was in my old neighborhood, where everything seems so nice and not sketchy-neigborhood-y now, so I went to my old grocery store and got supplies. We’re allegedly getting like 52 inches of snow this weekend, a fact that delights and thrills me, except that my old boyfriend from high school will be in another part of the state and that will shoot any get-together plans all to hell.

“I knew when I heard 13″ were coming that you were on your way,” I texted him, and the hilarity never stops over at Text of June.

But here’s the thing. It’s a snowstorm in the South. TRY FINDING AN ONION. Because not only does everyone buy up the goddamn bread and milk, they also all make chili, as I was doing. I had to buy a white onion and I can only hope my chili survives.

Beleaguered Juan. Mary and her manger had nothing on Beleaguered Juan.

So I got home right at 4:00, because the line at the grocery store was like the line for the end of time. You know how THOSE lines are.

When I got home, my Chewy box had come, not that I chewed the box. So I had to open cat-food bags and dump them in the cat-food tin, lug litter, and generally curse the animals. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Then I had the groceries to put away.

And animals to greet.

And everyone had to get fed.

Bout tyme.
wut hell, mom. edz starv.
Well, crap, I might as well put the dishes away. 
I’m never home this time of day. Look how pretty the light is at–OH MY GOD IS THAT THE TIME?
Beleaguered June is late for the party.

I took The Poet as my date, and it’s like this whole event was set up to convenience us. First of all, we both live five minutes from work. She probably lives three minutes from work, as it took me two minutes to drive the mile to her apartment.

Look how cute her place is. They set up the front to look just like a dashboard.

She invited me in and I admired her brains.

Anyway, then we got in the car, drove across the street, and we were at the country club. I’m not even making this up. It was one minute to her house, one minute to the club, and you’d think we’d both be avid members and all, it being so close.

“Welcome Members of the Month, June and Poet.”

The first person we saw was Boss, crnt.

Boss, crnt., is very photogenic. This is the only picture I took of her and look at her!
We sat next to Griff, who actually DOES belong to the country club. “Do you ever just, like, come here for lunch?” “If they’re having oysters,” he said. Well, sure.

The food was delicious, and someone noted that I selected all the options for children, such as the macaroni and cheese and the chicken tenders. Look, they were excellent chicken tenders.

At the end of the evening I saw The Poet putting rolls in her purse. I mean, I AM out of bread. And a storm IS coming. Apparently, you need bread. “I wish I had some kind of napkin to put them in,” I kvetched.

And that’s when The Poet whipped out 79 country club napkins, just for taking home rolls. Then when we searched our purses for our coat check tickets, we had to remove said rolls and did not at all look like doddering old ladies. Which, come on. How far off are we?

Anyway, it was a good time, did I mention? And I always like to see everyone in their finery. I wish I’d taken a photo of Wedding Alex’s sparkly skirt. You’d have all died and then who would read me.

When I got home, I put the rolls on the counter, and Edsel promptly ate them. Then I took him to the all night euthanasia drive-thru. 


June's stupid life

The 4,974 legs

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want.

Mostly I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want because someone asked me what I want. Mostly up till then I was just trying to go to work and keep up with my hand-washables. I hadn’t stopped to consider. And when I got asked, I was all, hunh. I wonder what I want.

This summer I traipsed to a new therapist, one of 87 in a line of the many many therapists I’ve seen in this lifetime, and I told her how I’d been married, but that being married annoyed me.

Then I told her that a year after my husband left I met a man and fell stupidly in love, stupid stupid stupid gaze-at-him in love, but he was not the marrying kind and that broke my heart so we broke up. Mostly. Sort of. I told her how he keeps coming around even though he doesn’t want to commit. That it’s been 7 years now of breaking up and him coming back, like a clog in your drain.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked. “Being married annoyed you, but being with someone who didn’t want to get married was unfulfilling, too.”


“Also, it sounds kind of like you really like living alone. Do you?”

Oh my god, yes. I adore living alone. I told her how much I enjoy walking into an empty house, if you count 16 other legs there as “empty.”

Not including fleas.

If you count 4,974 legs there as “empty.”

“Not everyone does, you know,” she said. “Not everyone likes living alone.”

God, really? I consider it one of my luxuries, like other women might consider a bath and an Almond Roca. I adore living alone. Have I said that yet?

But I don’t know if I want to be relationship-less. However, I’ve also put in like 3% effort into finding another person this year. I sometimes vaguely turned on my dating profile here and there. Barely answered anyone because they were always the type who’d wear sunglasses on their baseball cap.

And I’ve never done that before. Since 8th grade I’ve pretty much dedicated myself full time to finding a boyfriend and then when my commitment light came on in my late 20s, to finding a husband.

Then when I was single again in my mid-40s, I went back to trying to find a boyfriend.

Now the whole idea of a relationship sounds like too much work. Do you have any idea how many books there are to read? Not to mention we’re in some sort of creative peak with TV shows, although Dear TV Maker People: Stop fucking thinking 8 episodes are a season. Fuck you. Fuck you totally. For sure. (That was only funny if you loved Valley Girl.)

Books never sext another woman.

TV shows don’t get annoyed because you don’t want to go on a hike.

My whole life, asshole-y smug types who’ve been married since 7th grade have always told me, You have to be happy just being alone. Then they go home to their 14 kids.

So, okay, I did it. I got happy being alone. Maybe a little too happy. I don’t feel lonely at all. If anything, I’ve got too many people wanting me to actually leave the house and do things, when most of the time I’m content to be home with the 4,974 legs.

But what if I turn into some sort of weird loner with fleas? What if I’m Lola the Showgirl 30 years later looking for Tony?

Is anyone else feeling the same way? Are you feelin’, feelin’ that way too? Or am I just, am I just a fool?


June's stupid life

Come and knock on our…oh, cut it out, June

Would you like to know what annoys me?


You’re dramatic. That’s enough. It already means what you think “overdramatic” means. Stop it.

People are also seeming to have trouble with their prepositions. I love the Long Island Medium, I’m sorry but I do, but in every episode, she says, “Before I begin I like to talk on how I read and receive messages…”

About. You like to talk ABOUT how you read and receive messages. Every time she says that I get the shivers. “I like to talk on…” STOP.

I realize “about” is an adverb. LEAVE IT. LEEEEAVE IT. Good reader. 

Speaking of which, this morning I was playing Two Blu with Edsel in the backyard. He won’t fucking fetch. You throw Blu and he runs around joyfully–he smiles on how he receives Blu–but he won’t give it back. He runs up to me and then runs away. But one day I discovered if I have BOTH Blus, I can throw one and when he runs back, I throw the other, and then we’re golden. Two Blu is an excellent game.

Edsel fekking loves Two Blu. It’s the happiest he is all day.


I threw Blu into the neighbor’s yard. I felt weird about TRAIPSING into the guy’s yard unannounced, and even weirder about knocking on his door before 7 a.m. Come and knock on our door. We’ve been hatin’ on you.

Come and knock on our door. Eds is waitin’ for Blu.

Come and knock on our door; we’ll play music at 2:00.

Anyway, you can imagine. Edsel could SEE Blu just on other side of metal theeng, mom. it ther. it rite ther. go get, mom. stop singeeng 3 Compnee, mom.

So now he’s curled in World’s Most Dejected Ball behind me, a thing I’d photograph for you but I’m charging my phone.

In my room, I have one of those long pluggy things with all the plugs in it. What’s that called? Anyway, it’s next to my bed, because a lot of the plugs in this 1932 house have the two-hole situation, and all the things I own need three holes to plug in, and let’s not delve into the 7th-grade humor we’re all dying to delve into.

Come and knock on our door. We’ve got three holes for you.

POWER STRIP. I have a power strip next to my bed, for the lamp and allegedly to power my phone at night, but all of a sudden my phone won’t charge there. I have no idea what’s wrong, but I discovered it when my phone’s alarm didn’t go off one morning because it was dead

Come and knock on our door, we’re dead.

Come and knock on our door. Work’s been waitin’ for you.

So now I use a regular alarm clock like it’s 2005 or something, and if I don’t remember to charge my phone at night I have to plug it in in the morning, in the kitchen, and what this blog is is fascinating.

Come and knock on my blog. I’ve been boring to you.

In other news, today is Tallulah’s birthday. She would have been 11. ELEVEN! Can you imagine? I can’t.

Everyone in this photo is dead, except for Edsel who will never ever ever die ever.

Goddammit. Why did Tallulah have to get sick and die? She was my favorite thing in the world. Look at her square head. I can’t stand it. I loved that dog.

Anyway, that sums up today. Things annoy me and my dog is dead.

Come and knock on my–OH MY GOD STOP,

June's stupid life

Important things June has bought lately (aka Prose hair products update)

Now that I’m not destitute

–and could I take this time to once again thank the people online who said they were “so sick” of hearing about how destitute I was before? That was kind. You’re kind. Be proud. Also, going on a website to complain about bloggers means your life is full. Yep.

Anyway, now that I’ve moved into this marginal neighborhood and my mortgage is practically nothing and so forth, I am able to buy things like a normal person, such as bread and hair gel and a handgun. Here’s a rundown of my latest conspicuous consumer purchases:

Blueberry hummus.

See. You thought I was making that up, didn’t you? Just like the reader who said I made it up that someone put Violet in my car.

I don’t know why I’m so bitter today. I guess I woke up this way. And by the way, the first thing I did this morning was punch Iris when I went to shut off the alarm. Maybe I’m bitter because too many goddamn animals sleep with me. When I was a kid, I slept with my 79 stuffed animals. I had no idea I was training for real life.

Anyway, blueberry hummus.

I went to the grocery store last night for my regular shopping and saw this on the shelf. There was a man also similarly looking at hummus. “Should I try blueberry hummus?” I asked him, pulling if off the shelf. “What have you got to lose?” he said. He was a jovial type.

I mean. $4.99. That’s what I’ve got to lose. But I got it, and as I walked away the man yelled, “See? I’ll try black bean hummus! We’ll report back to each other!” 

Like black bean hummus is such a stretch. Come on. Clearly I am the adventurer in this relationship.

The point is, I got home and tried it immediately because have you met my impulse control? And blueberry hummus



Oh my god, I adore blueberry hummus! It has a definite tang to it, and I ate it with crackers–regular rice crackers, not graham crackers as they suggested as I am not a toddler. Well. Other than my impulse control.

Prose hair products.

About a week ago, I told you that I fell for an ad on Instagram, and really I fall for ALL THE ADS on the Instagram. They know my thoughts. Just this weekend I mentioned I’d like to buy another paint-by-numbers, and lo and behold, Instagram gave me a paint-by-numbers-for-adults ad.

I don’t mean it was a paint-by-numbers dick. It was a nice impressionist painting. I want one.

But the ad I fell for that I’m talking about here is Prose hair products. You answer Qs and they MAKE THE PRODUCTS just for YOU! You know how I am. I’m Donald Trump. I love things about me.

I told them about my hair (worrysome) and they came up with shampoo, conditioner and a hair kabuki mask, which by the way is not the same blend as they came up with for Rebecca, up there in the photo. “Outdoor athlete.” Usually, when people describe me, that’s their first descriptor.

Anyway, at first I was on the fence about Prose, but that was before I used the hair mask. The hair mask made the difference.

I think I like Prose. My hair looks more normal-person-ish.

“It’s like your hair is a whole different texture!” my hairdresser exclaimed, ‘ere she drove out of sight.

Happy hair products to all, and to all a good night.


As you know, from your Big Book of June Events, which I guess is just “this blog,” I purchased a small Cuisinart coffeemaker when I moved in here, as my previous one conveniently died right when I was moving. I was all, Good. One less thing. But that new coffeemaker VEXES me. It’s fussy, and half the time won’t brew because it’s not in the mood or it’s taking a mental health day.

So this weekend I was buying a padlock for my garage (see above re marginal neighborhood) and I saw coffee pots were on sale at the Target, and I got a programmable Mr. Coffee for like $18. WOOOOO! And when the alarm goes off and I punch a pet each morning, I can hear the coffeemaker already workin’ for me.

i not fuzsy!

My life has been transfigured. I put that French high-maintenance bastard Cuisinart in the cupboard, for coffee emergencies, even though I also have a french press for the same reason. I got a backup for my backup. What addiction?

That sums up m’purchases, although while I’ve been writing this, my (hot) mailman (of color) just dropped off three pair of reading glasses I ordered, as I have gotten more blind and have to, you know, read every day for work. I wonder if I can deduct these? 

I’m a 2.25 strength, if anyone wonders. And yes, my eye doctor does blame my career choice for why my eyes are bad, although my mother practically wore glasses in the womb, as did my Aunt Mary. My grandmother that I’ve turned into always felt so guilty, because she took my young Aunt Mary to the eye doctor, and Aunt M put on her new glasses and kept squeaking, “I can see! I can see!”

Anyway, I can’t wait to get to work today and copy edit something that I can actually see.

Hello, supervisor who reads my blog.

What have you bought lately? Should I try it? Should I wait till Instagram advertises it to me?


June's stupid life

Punch and Junie

The first thing I did this morning was punch Edsel in the face, as I reached to shut off the alarm. Merrrrry Christmas! 

Oh, he’s fine. If you can’t take a punch, you have no reason to be my dog. Plus, must he BE .07 INCHES from me at all times? It results in tragedy like this.


This was a busildy weekend, starting with me getting the wrong glasses.

Hi. I’m bland.

I waited 16 days for my new glasses to come in, and I’d ordered a rosy tortoiseshell, and the mirror was behind the desk at the glasses place, and it wasn’t till I got to a restaurant after that I was all, heyyyyy. These aren’t tortoiseshell.

Nothing gets past me.

So then I had to take them back, and I could tell they didn’t believe me that I didn’t pick out these worm-colored frames, but I didn’t. But then I couldn’t find the rose-colored tortoiseshells, and I was cursing my whole “Don’t print a receipt” from 16 days ago, because every time I have something printed I picture the polar bear on a tiny piece of ice and I can’t even stand it.

So instead of ruining our ecosystem or whatever, I ruined my appearance.

Anyway, I ended up getting these, which look like every pair of glasses I ever pick out.

And now I’m my grandmother even more than I was.

Back in her day, polar bears had plenty of ice. As did her veins. Also, in the photo of her, there’s my small-person head at the bottom. Good lord, I had every color of those beads for your hair that you can think of. I believe I secretly thought every day should be pink-bead day.

Saturday was one of those days where you run from one thing to the next. On Saturday mornings, I like to dump out the disgusting litterbox altogether and scrub it and hose it out and dry it and sweep the litter that’s all over yonder and wash the floor in there, and for some reason that takes a damn hour.

Then I had to scream Lily to the vet, as she and Milhous managed to trap themselves in the bathroom one night last week, and the following morning, a morning I’d overslept, I tore into the bathroom to shower as quickly has humanly possible and not only were two cats in there, but poor Lily, because she’s a good girl and did not know what else to do, pooped in the shower.

This led me to the discovery that there is a tapeworm up in Lily, which means there’s a tapeworm in everyone and why do I have pets.

If you’re not familiar, all you have to do is give them all a pill and it’s over with. But the vet had not yet met Lily, as I quit my last vet in a huff about six months ago (they seriously sent me “It’s time for [insert pet’s name here]’s appointment!” emails at least once a week, and when there are four pets that gets old, and also it was never actually really time for an appointment. It was always the sort of thing where okay, we could go in now, if I wanted to spend every weekend at the vet. I called twice to say, I only want to take in each pet once a year, barring emergencies, so can you knock it off with those false alarms and they always said, No, we can’t. We have NO CONTROL over how often we send you these. I even gathered them all up on one screenshot to show how often they were–)

I know. I’m being a let-me-speak-to-your-manager Karen.

So the new vet, who does not bug me with emails, insisted she see Lily before she just gave her a pill. She’s seen everyone else. The point is, she insists Lily is overweight.


I’m TELLING you, she doesn’t eat that much. But she’s a round mound of meow, as Ned would say. Apparently that’s a sports joke.

So she got cans of special diet food that she refuses to eat, and that the other cats also similarly too refuse to eat, so now I have cans of rejected diet food, which is what I’ve been hoping and praying for all along.

As soon as I got Round Lily keeps on turnin’ back home, I had to scream to the hair place, as it was time for my roots. Last time I was there, I was going to move into a whole different house, and I’d link to that post where I tell you about the 17 houses I considered, but I’m pressed for the time because I was occupied with punching the dog this morning.

The point is that I hadn’t gotten my roots done in four months, and was living on $7 root cover, and it was dire. It was dire, wolf.

How do I look with silver hair?

We decided to go a little darker, like my moods, and voila.

I not only have darker hair, I have on 16 pounds of makeup. I was invited to my coworker Lottie Blanco’s Christmas party, that she and her wife, also named Lottie Blanco, throw every year. Before the party and after my hair dye, I ran to the candy store to get them a hostess gift and when I whipped open the candy-store door, there was The Poet, buying boxes of candy that reached up over her head.

“Are you getting everyone candy for Christmas?” I asked.

“No, this is just for me,” said The Poet from behind her boxes. The Poet weighs at most 17 pounds.

Anyway, I drove to Lottie Blanco’s and once I got to her neighborhood, I pretty much guessed which house was hers.

It was the house with the subtle nod to Christmas.

“You’re certainly going to have the most festive shoes,” Lottie B told me she thought, when she saw my black velvet shoes with sparkly ties. Those shoes ROCK. Those shoes hurt like fuck.

“Hey, everyone, this is Lottie’s straight friend!” Lottie Blanco’s wife, Lottie Blanco, said.

Who is never going to get over the part where I’ve blog-named them both Lottie Blanco? Is it me?

Anyway, we had a great time. The food was to die for, and there was nothing un-Christmassed in that house. When they begin a theme, they follow it through, the Lottie Blancos do.

At one point, the back door just up and broke. It leads to a screened-in porch, where a lot of people had stored their drinks, and that damn thing would neither open or close. It was just stuck. Poor Lottie Blanco my coworker was stuck behind it, on the porch, with all the drinks.

“Is this going in your blog?” she asked, from behind the door.

Eventually, about 450 of her friends came to help her and they eventually had to take the whole damn thing off. “How many lesbians does it take to open a door?” someone joked, and that is when I thought maybe I should help and bust that stereotype, but I want you to brace yourself: I had no idea what was wrong with that fucking door.

The rest of the night was spent watching Lottie B’s corgis try to figure out why the door was weird, and leap over it with their tiny stump legs. They’re corgis, so they have to stump over everything.

In unrelated news, I would like a corgi.

I have to get to work, which is a shame because I wanted to tell you what a


Iris is about taking a pill, but suffice it to say everyone here is medicated, and some of us are foaming at the jerky mouth.

we not. we the gud cats. if you do not count that bafroom insidint.

I’ll talk at you later. Try not to poop in the bathtub today. Or punch your dog.