ADD is--oooo, shiny! · Aging ungracefully · Am British · Food and Drink · In the kitchen with June · My pets

Oh, you know. Just cats, The Simpsons, and blender-licking.

You’d think Lily would bite his face off. But needy. Both of ’em.

Some nights, Edsel is just too much. With the flumping dramatically off the bed whenever I move a corpuscle. Then floomping back on a minute later. With the pressing his head on my neck as hard as he can, for pets. At 4 a.m.

So some nights I kick him out. Last night was one of those nights.

But I let Lily stay, which I rarely do, and last night I was reminded why.

Good lord. This cat has some sort of disorder. Some sort of friendliness disorder. You don’t get a cat so it’ll be friendly. You get a cat so it can lie sleekly across the room and glare at you.

“Yes, I’d like to return this cat? Yes, I do have my receipt, hang on. …Well, she’s too friendly. Something’s broken. She needs her bitch meter turned up.”

She constantly–CONSTANTLY!!–pushes her head into your hand. You have no idea how hard a cat can push her head into you till you’ve dealt with this one.

fek yew

Actual, unretouched photo of Lily right this minute, making an elusive trip to the food bowl.

Meanwhile, in the back of my ranch, Edsel was left to his own devices. When I got up this morning, I saw he’d taken my robe to the couch and slept with it. So now I have to walk through this life knowing Edsel sobbed into my robe all night.

fuk yew mean it

I just noticed that Lily has moved on to Iris’s dish.

And while nothing is more interesting than hearing about someone’s pets, let’s move on to talk about someone’s work. Wooo! Lemme get more coffee, June.

Busy, is what it was. I literally got 11 hours’ worth of work done in 8 yesterday, and also my blog post was published, the one I was kvetching about doing yesterday. So that was active. After work, I got my hair done because I was shooting moonbeams out my head and not in the good way. What roots?

I should just give up and go gray. If I didn’t dye my hair and didn’t get Botox, I’d save approximately 12 million dollars a month. But I’d look like hell and hate myself. But, see, I already look like hell and hate myself, just underneath “blonde” hair. I should just officially give up and embrace my inner old lady. Which is getting more and more to be my outer old lady.

One day I will look back at photos from this time and think, “I was so young!” That’s depressing.

You know, from age 12 on, I was under the misguided impression that beauty was just around the corner. That I’d just have to get through this one awkward stage and there it would be: my peak of looks. Except that never happened and I spent my whole life looking eh. Eh, she’s all right.

And now I’m on the downward spiral of age and it isn’t going to get better. Although do you watch the Real Housewives? How can you read this blog and not watch the Real Housewives, is what I wanna know. Anyway, Kyle looks particularly good this season, and not fake, either. So if I become a millionaire, maybe then I’ll start an upward spiral.

Speaking of which, I won a dollar playing instant lottery this week. Do you recall, in your Big Book of June Events, that on January 1 I won $100? And I was all, “It’s gonna be MY YEAR!”?

Turns out, it was really everyone’s year and not just mine.

Still, I hadn’t bought a lottery ticket since and the other day I had a dollar so I went to town on the machine at the grocery store and boom. Dollar. Clearly I am on some kind of streak. When I return to the grocery store–

and here is the part where my mother is shocked that two days have gone by since I last went. “Make a list, honey.” But really, what else have I got to do?

Anyway, next time I go to the store I will buy another lottery ticket with my last one, and this is how they get you hooked. Next thing you know, I’m Marge Simpson at the casino.Simpsons_05_10.jpgRemember when she got hooked on the gambling? What do you mean, you didn’t catch that episode in 29 years of that being a show? Is The Simpsons still on?

To be fair, I’ve never once watched an episode of Gunsmoke, which is the second-longest-running show after The Simpsons. But to be fairer, I was a zygote when that show started, and also, who wants to watch a Western?

There is nothing that will make me change a channel quicker than a Western. My grandmother was forever watching Westerns like they were good. Oh, look. A cactus. And a bar. And someone shooting someone. Say, is that an Indian?


Plus also, anything having to do with the courts or justice or law or murder mysteries. I just don’t care. I read some Agatha Christie when I was a kid because my Aunt Kathy loved then, and what I liked about them was her Britishness. I wanted to hear how she made a spot of tea. I didn’t care who lay prone in the drawing room.

So what I’m saying is, I have also never watched those Law and Onions or whatever they’re called. And those Murder, SUV or whatever. Of course, now I have no TV, so I watch nothing except binges of the Real Housewives, which is good because it’s reality, everyone. I only watch what’s real.

But truth be told, and pull up a chair cause I’m ’bout to tell you a shameful secret. Truth be told, those housewives shows are getting old. It’s the same thing over and over. Someone gets offended and then 8 episodes are devoted to the one woman saying. “We need to talk about how offended I was” and then they offend each other anew, or a new person gets mad, and really in the grand scheme, hoooo care. I just like to see when they pop into the plastic surgeon for a spot of collagen or when they show us how much they spent when they go shopping together. Whoever thought to always show us the cash register at the end is a brilliant person.

Also, Philip Roth died. Did you hear? I’ll bet he was a real fan of the Real Housewives.

All right, I gotta go. I realize this was a pressing post, but oh! My smoothies come today!


I don’t know how I got to be part of this demographic, but on Instagram I keep getting the same ad, where this hot young girl in her 20s lives in this million-dollar clearly NY apartment and she gets up every day and inexplicably rubs her lips in her bathroom mirror. “Every morning, I do what I gotta do,” she begins, and apparently that involves rubbing her lips. And she looks good doing it. I’d look like I had a nervous tic.

“Then I have one of my smoothies. It feels like I’m doing something naughty.”

See. That’s how hot 20-year-olds think. I’ll show you something naughty, you vanilla whippersnapper.

Anyway, then she gets this delicious-looking smoothie out her freezer, and she makes it in a fancy blender, and then





and manages to look adorable doing it. Then she kisses her teensy shitty little dog and leaves.

June. Losing readers with shitty small dogs, since 2018. Just get a cat if you need such a purse-sized dog. See above about what a pleasure cats are.

The point is, I watched this ad until I became convinced that if I just got these smoothies, my life would be transfigured and I would be cute and hot and living in New York with a nervous dog the size of a button. Hashtag goals.

I hope that model isn’t real and that that’s not her real dog, cause then I would feel bad. I guess that shitty small dog is someone’s dog, right?

MY POINT is that I signed up to get these smoothies, and allegedly here is a referral link that means you get three free cups and I do, too. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you have to buy some, too. You’ll be stunned to hear I didn’t take time to read all about it.

I’ll report back to you on if they’re good. You can choose what kind of benefits you want and they adjust the ingredients accordingly. I chose beautifying, because I want to be 20 and a millionaire.


Am British · Television

The foreign-bean section

I just now got up and fed the regularly scheduled animals, and man, that was easy.

PLOOP. Throw Edsel’s food in a dish. I’ve moved his bowls and food tin back to the kitchen.

Thrill to the sight of the bowls in their rightful place.

I’d had them in this room, my computer room, at the back of the house,

Chalk outline of old bowl locale.

so his crunching wouldn’t scare the mom cat inches away in the room off the kitchen.

Say “room” one more time, June.


Krrrrplap. Iris and Lily’s food, served in the window of the kitchen.

FLAARP. Steely Dan’s canned food, atop the refridge.

Aaaaand, scene. I mean, that all took less than a minute. Everything was in one…room. I changed their water, too. Seriously. Under a minute.


But here is where I will not say my favorite thing when someone is telling a story, and the thing I will not say is, “Let me back up.”

After work, there was a happy hour, but I opted for a June hour instead. Like all my hours aren’t June hours.

I headed to the grocers, the greengrocers, Hulk Teeter’s, because I’d decided to have baked beans on toast during my wedding Saturday morning. When I lived in London the summer of 1990, every morning in the dorm one of the choices was baked beans on toast, and I always had it after my run through the park, and it was delicious.

I had a friend from London, when I lived in LA, and she was pretty much the Forrest Gump of our time. I mean, you name a cultural event in my generation, she was there, somehow. She’s had this charmed life. Anyway, SHE told me the reason it’s delicious is the type of baked bean they have in England.

IMG_8732I went over to the foreign bean section at my grocer’s Friday evening, and do you know every motherfucker in this town bought all the good beans, leaving just this dented can of botulism that I did not buy?

IMG_8733.jpgI also went to Target and got new watching-the-royals pajamas, as the royal family is famous for getting pajamas at Target. Meghan’s wedding dress was totally from Target.

I’d gone to bed early Friday, in order to be fresh for my wedding. I’d set the alarm, but oh my god I BOUNDED out of bed before it, got m’Diana QVC engagement ring on

and screamed over to the telly. I’m British now, as I have married Prince Harry, so I can say “telly.” I can also say “Savalas.”


wat da fek wrong wif mom.

Oh, I squealed, I cried, I clapped, I cried more, I screeched, I carried on. THAT WEDDING!!!!

I loved her tiara, and her lace on her veil. I thought her dress was perfect, and why people want it to be a skin-tight David’s bridal mermaid gown is beyond me. I loved everything, even Camilla’s hat.

I wanted to pinch the queen’s cheeks, which I’m certain would have gone over big.

And Meghan’s mom! She is magnificent. She was lit from within.

And okay. That preacher was a little much. But he meant well, and it makes me want to be Episcopalian.

I was a wreck by the end of that thing. I’d cried, I’d clapped, I’d changed religions.

I texted with my friends Lilly and Sandy throughout, and both L and S were annoyed that Meghan had hair out of place. “I realize it’s her thing, but still,” texted Sandy, who has always joined me in judgyness.

“It’s bothering me, too,” said Lilly, who likes Camilla, by the way, because “one day I’ll be an old horsey woman just like her, you know.”

I hate to say it, but I have softened re Camilla as well. They had unfortunate circumstances, but they were in love, Camilla and Charles were. Is it Camila or Camilla? I don’t have time to look it up.

Anyway, I pointed out to Lilly and Sandy that there we were, judging Meghan’s one hair out of place, when we were all three sitting around looking like hell in our pajamas.

IMG_8803.jpgAnyway, the whole thing was quite taxing on me, but totally worth it.

IMG_8809.jpgI had to stop off for a restorative cream soda after, she says keto-ly, at my favorite sandwich shop, which happened to be next to my Botox place, where I had a 10 a.m. appointment. Normally on a Saturday that hour would kill me, but hell, I’d had a whole day and every emotion and a religious conversion by then.

Fortunately for all of us, my Botoxer is my age. She had been almost late for work, so involved was she in our wedding.

“Yes, they were in love, but he’d made marriage vows,” said my Botoxer, as she came at me with with a needle. She herself is a victim of infidelity, but has meet a lovely new man, who she’s marrying in July.

My Botoxer and I throw down when we’re together.

“You really don’t ever want to get married again?” she asked me, as she jabbed the botox I rejected in my beans into my forehead.

“I really don’t. I did for a long time, when I was desperately in love, but now I enjoy my alone time. I mean, look at me this morning! I didn’t have to take any shit from anyone about my wedding.”


IMG_8820.jpgAfter my Botox, I had a 1 p.m. appointment to take my kittens and their mom to the shelter for shots. While they came to me in a shelter-appointed carrier (see above), I had to return them in two, because they’d gotten too big for eight cats in one carrier.

I’d been weighing them all along, and I knew all the orange boys were close to two pounds (that’s how much they have to weigh to be spayed or neutered) but all the girls were a pound and a half. Runty was a little less than a pound and a half. So what I figured was they’d return my carrier with three tortoiseshell kittens in it.

They came back with an empty carrier.

I lifted the thing to be sure.

“All of them?”

“Yes, ma’am. They all made weight.”

Dammit. I need to get something better than that old kitchen scale.

So, this week LaUral will get her little tortoiseshell and another faithful reader will get the mom. The good news is, when I first got to the shelter, I had two carriers with me, and there were two chairs available in the whole room.

One woman was sitting down filling out an adoption form, and her


of a daughter, who was young, like, maybe 15, maybe 20, they all look the same to me now, looked up, squealed over my


of kittens, and kept sitting her stupid young arse down in that chair. I wanted to bludgeon her with a cat carrier. So will I stood there holding eight cats so that


could sit next to her mom for no good reason, other people approached to look in my carriers. One young couple got quite enamored of my kittens, and as I was leaving they were filling out a form, too.

“Oh, are you really going to take one?” I asked, running down for them each personality trait of each kitten even though they hadn’t asked.

“We’re thinking of taking as many as three of them, ma’am,” they said.

Oh my god! Three!

“Take two orange boys, then, for sure.” I told him. “They all play together and would love to stay with each other.”

And then I returned to my empty house, with barely any pets in it.

I gotta go. I didn’t do much Sunday except grocery shop and drive out to the country for strawberries, which is my new favorite thing to do.

IMG_8826.jpgWhere, by the way, I saw this. Apparently there are water buffalo now in North Carolina. Or just hot cows. She’s the Pamela Anderson of cows.

I’d like you to take a moment to drink in my current references.

After I bought healthy strawberries, I also drove further out in the country and got some restorative ice cream, she continues keto-ly. There’s a dairy here where they make the ice cream on site, and I am pleased to tell you they have a very friendly guinea hen there named George who I am mos def in love with. (See above re current.)


Okay, now I’ve talked forever and I really have to go.

June, dutchess of keto




Am British · June doesn't know any ugly people

Days I can’t complain about

I just sat down to blog at you, and sometimes when I have no pressing news, I look at my recent photos to jar my memory of what’s been going on. Not in a Marvin Gaye way.

IMG_8642.jpgWe have two new guys at work who hail from Vegas. I mean, they don’t bring icy pellets with them wherever they go. You know what I mean. Anyway, we act like they’ve never lived on the planet before, so…introduce-y are we to The Way of North Carolina’s People.

“Have you guys ever tried honeysuckle?” we asked them the other day, on our 3 o’clock walk.

IMG_8644.jpgWe showed them how you pull the stamen out and eat the little drip of honey at the bottom.

IMG_8645.jpg“I guess that’s why they call it honeysuckle,” said one of the newborn Las Vegas guys, who probably hasn’t seen any of the world or anything in Las Vegas. We also gave them a riveting discourse on humidity.

Here’s the best part: It had never occurred to a single one of us that “honeysuckle” was the same as “you suckle the honey.”

Well, golll-eee.

When I got home from work that night, I did the thing where you remain in your car for a moment. I forget why. Something good on the radio (but not NPR, as NPR makes me want to kill own self), something I wanted to answer on my phone. I don’t know. The point is, why do I always forget that this is going to happen?


He can’t wait EIGHT SECONDS for me to emerge from the car.

wat doooooeng mom

IMG_8688.jpgThen when I did finally go inside, I had all this. LOOKIT THE BABY.

There are also two OTHER new guys at work, and they sit in an office right across from me. That area was originally an “ideation” space, my favorite word, and it was also the space I made doctor’s appointments in, because hello open floor plan. It also served as a milk-pump room for women at work because hello open floor plan.

However, the two guys who moved in there are pretty great, and in fact I KNOW them from another ad agency I worked at.

The agency we came from didn’t just have coffee. It had three different coffee bars, with fresh beans, and from what I hear, there’s a full-time barista there now.

My work doesn’t provide coffee, just a Keurig pot and you bring your own pods, and they were surprised at that.

“I have my own Hello Kitty coffeemaker at my desk,” I said, “but I never bring real coffee.”

One of the guys whipped out a baggie.

“Let’s do this bitch.”

The best part was watching this 8-foot-tall bearded viking carrying my Hello Kitty coffeemaker from the kitchen to my desk.

IMG_8707.jpgSo we had real coffee at 4 p.m. yesterday, and I slept anyway last night because addict. I just drink coffee now to keep from feeling sick.


When I got home last night, I had a package. About a week ago, my pal in real life, Marty Martin, put an article on Facebook about jewelry called Fordite, or Detroit Agate. For years, people painted cars by hand, at Michigan factories, and the cement underneath it had swirls of the various car paints baked into them. Someone got the idea to make that concrete into jewelry.

When I was growing up, everyone worked at the factory making cars. Everyone. Not my parents, although they both worked at the factories for like a week apiece at some point in their youth.

But my grandparents did. And everyone’s dad did that I went to school with.


When I saw that Detroit agate was a thing, I had to have some. Got this on Etsy–just look it up there and there are plenty of choices. It was hard to photograph up close but all the colors have a little bit of sparkle to them. There are reds, blues, silvers, creams. Ooooo, I loves it. It’s the jewelry of my people.

Also last night, a woman came over to look at Runty and decided she might take the mom cat, Cora, instead. Cora is rather charming, and I’m not worried about people adopting the kittens, because they will.

I take them all in to the shelter tomorrow after my wedding, for their shots and a checkup. I think they will probably take the mom and all the orange boys, who all weigh nearly two pounds now, and give me back the girls for continued fattening–or at least Runty, who weighs only one kitty pound. And if I were gonna keep anyone


I would keep Runty, and to give her back to me is a little squealy and I must not love Runty.

yuuu alreddy love me, bitz

I went in to say goodnight to the kittens last night, and three of them were up in the closet. They love that closet in there. They better not ruin my ’60s romance magazines I hid in there when I was thinking of showing my house.

I better go. Tonight is a happy hour for a woman at work who’s leaving, but I really want to be sure to be in good shape for my wedding, so I don’t know if I’ll go. I tend to go to those things saying I’ll just stay for one and being the last person to Uber home at 2 a.m.

Actually, I’ve never done that, but does anyone recall the Whiskey Sour Extravaganza of 2018? ‘Twasn’t pretty.

Or how about the Ned Had to Get Me That One Night Extravaganza of 2016?


I’ll talk to you all soon. My wedding day involves not just my royal wedding, but that trip to the vet, and also m’Botox and then a party and a baseball game. I know. I’m only going to the baseball game because they are giving away free Prince Harry bobbleheads. You know your ass’d go to that sporting event, too.

The point is, you might not hear from me that day, but fret not. We will discuss the wedding, my wedding, ad nauseum.


Am British · I hate everything · June's stupid life

Special Sunday Humiliation Edition

Ned–and right there’s my problem: Ned.

Ned has been out of town a lot lately, with work and family things. “I thought of asking if Nancy could stay with you, but I realize you’re at cat capacity,” he said, and why he thinks 11 cats counts as “capacity” is beyond me.

der plenteee of room
joyn uz, nancee
not even full kitteee yet
kittee just live in hurr

Vagabond Ned was going to grace his own town with his presence for a one-night-only special appearance Friday, and he wondered if I’d like to have dinner.

“Can we go to the Thai place?” I asked, because ket-no. Keto schmeto. If I see one more piece of food that doesn’t have carbs in it, I’m gonna drive myself to the nearest wheat field and just commence chewing.

Ned agreed, which means he must have been desperate because he hates the Thai place, as apparently they don’t serve good beer. This is a thing I’d never notice, but I’m not old Hoppy Ned. Old barley boyfriend, fmr.

So off we went, and I am delighted to tell you that Ned got pinot noir and I ordered the Kung Pao chicken, which isn’t even Taiwanese (heeeee) but Chinese, and HOOOO CARE because the point is it comes with rice.


Oh, rice.

Delightful rice.

I was Condoleezza Rice, is who I was. I was Carbra Streisand. I had it all over me, like I was a toddler. I was mashing it on my hands, it was in my hair. I felt magnificent. Reuniting with rice. That’s nice.

Any time anything is “America’s No. 1,” you know you’re in trouble. You know it’s right up there with white sneakers and new country music.

While I was carb loading, I managed to bring up the royal wedding, with which I am obsessed. “It’s only a week away!” I said, wondering if the Thai place also had a bread basket and maybe an oatmeal cart or tortilla tray.

Ned has always insisted that Kate Middleton is the most beautiful woman in the world, but that is where his interest in the royals begins and ends.

“What I want to see is the Kate Middleton sex tape. When’s THAT thing gonna come out?” he asked, over his plate of Thai vegetables and a side salad of vegetables. “Could I get one grain of whole-wheat brown rice?” he’d requested.

“I imagine, Ned, that there are all kinds of Kate Middleton lookalike pornographic films available,” I said from under my I Heart Rice sash I’d fashioned from the pages of my now-useless keto book. “I mean, surely you’ve looked for them.”

Ned put down his forkful of kale.

“I’m disappointed in myself that I’ve never thought to look for that,” he said.

I got out my phone. In general, I don’t look at pornography, because I figure that’s a job for the men of America, but in keeping with my general fascination with the absurd, I do occasionally look up ridiculous themes like Star Wars and My Little Pony porn. Am I the only person here who knows you can find anything–ANYTHING–made dirty by some poor soul? And again, I am looking at you, Broken Men of America.

For example, sometimes I look up the search terms people use to find this blog. Behold the last one:

Screen Shot 2018-05-13 at 9.57.57 AM.png

I feel like the fact that that’s even a thing is the work of men. I do.

Anyway, naturally, I got out my phone right there at the restaurant and Googled “Kate Middleton porn.” And lo and behold, the world and Photoshop and MEN had already addressed the world’s deep need to see Kate Middleton in the altogether.

“Here’s one!” I said brightly, showing Kate’s lovely face surrounded by man bits that had quite recently…lightened their loads, as it were.

“Oh my god–PUT THAT AWAY!” commanded Ned, who can be quite the fussy hen sometimes.

Do you think I put it away? Do you? When I was already on a rice high and thrilled to appall Ned?

There was Kate Middleton, pantsless, leaning on a desk. “In a million years, she’d never wear shoes like that,” I announced, thinking of her vast collection of tasteful nude pumps.

Also captured on film was Kate’s apparent visit to the United Nations, so diverse were the men she was…offering felicitations. Also, for as well-dressed as she normally is, you’d think she’d remember to at least wear, you know, something when greeting these fine gentleman, but she often limited herself to a few lacy bits of lingerie.

I held up for Ned images of Kate Middleton greeting dignitaries at her back door.

Kate Middleton the…orator.

And who knew Kate was such a fan of the ladies in waiting?

“Put that phone away this instant,” commanded Ned, his salad growing cold.

After dinner, we both had to go to Rite Aid for various reasons, and it become one of those Rite Aid visits where you begin browsing, and Ned found himself enamored of a hand-shaped retractable flyswatter, which he kept rapping me with from various distances.

There was also a retractable duster, which the more I think about it, the more likely I am to return and purchase. It’s actually a brilliant invention.

“Attention Rite Aid shoppers,” said the ceiling. “The store will close in three minutes.”

“Oh my god! We’ve shut down Rite Aid!” I said, thrilled. I can’t recall the last time I got a last call announcement. Ned and I high-fived our flyswatters.

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here at Rite Aid,” Ned said.

After all that excitement, I barely got up in time to greet the cable guy, who came over Saturday to give me TV. “I haven’t had TV in years,” I told him, “but I’m getting it to watch the royal wedding next Saturday.”

Being a straight man with a blue-collar job, you can imagine the intensity of his interest in the royal wedding. This didn’t stop me from telling him all about my fascination with the royals, and how early I got up at age 15 to watch Diana’s wedding, and how I stayed up for her funeral, as well.

“You’re also getting faster internet as part of the package,” the indifferent cable guy told me. “In fact, why don’t you see if your internet is back up. It should be available now.”

And that is when I got my phone and clicked on Safari, the cable guy looking over my shoulder…

…where a photo of Kate Middleton, her wedding dress hiked up, enjoying adult moments with William and an enormous man of color, flashed on my phone.





...friend/Ned · Am British · I like cats

Royal with cheese

I got my crown.

Bow down, bitches

Of course I took a flattering selfie at the dentist. What are you? New? I feel like I didn’t look that bad in real life, but what do I know?

They have a procedure there where you get the whole crown in one visit–no horrific temporary. No mold where they stick the goop in your head. They built my crown on the computer and made it in the other room and stuck it in my head. I believe I took this while I was waiting for my crown. When AMN’T I waiting for a crown? “Amn’t” is a good word that I made up when I was like two.

Anyway, technology. It’s not just a good idea. It’s the law. Say, June, why don’t you try to make some sense?

Afterward, I thought it was okay. I went to the grocery store and got dog food, cat food, Steely Dan canned food (like he’s not also a cat), and coffee. All the staples. Then I came home and walked Edsel for half an hour, fed everyone, and considered watching another rousing episode of Parenthood (Kristina Braverman is an asshole) when


Oh my god, ow.


It really started to hurt. I mean, he told me it might be “sensitive,” but mother of god. And of course I own zero ibuprofen. Migraine people don’t even bother with it.

And this is why it’s a problem that Ned is four minutes away. Ned, who owns enough ibuprofen to reduce SpongeBob’s inflammation. When he sees a hot sponge girl.

Ned is an old man, who continues to insist upon the gym, so as a result something always hurts on Ned. Not his conscience. Don’t be silly. But the rest of him.

IMG_7112.jpgSo he came over. Brought me meds. And all the cats rejoiced throughout the land. Well. That’s not entirely true. Steely Dan mostly ignored him, after an initial minute of attempts to have THAT guy let him out, since The Girl is not budging on this matter.

“He’s just looking up at the doorknob,” Ned noted.

so fekking bore
Even when he’s “resting,” he keeps whipping his tail angrily.

IMG_7080.jpgAnyway, Ned’s delivery of meds went without incident, and the ibuprofen did work, and maybe I’ll take more today, because while it’s certainly better, it’s not 100% pleased with this coffee hitting it.

IMG_7107.jpgThe rest of my evening pretty much went like this. Poor Iris and her lack of eyes.

…I just saw an email that work wants me to come in right away and get started on something, so I’d better go early, but while I was convalescing yesterday, I had a thought.

What if Princess Diana isn’t really dead? What if the royal family was sick and tired of her bullshit, and she was sick of attention, so they made up a scheme where they faked her death? No, I’m not smoking the pot. But I have been watching The Royals, that stupid show on E (Exclamation Point).

Did I ever tell you when the economy was booming and I lived in LA, they called me, E Exclamation Point did, to offer me a job? They called me at WORK. I don’t even know how they got my number. But they needed a copy editor, and they wanted me. It wasn’t “Come in for an interview,” it was “Come in for the job.”

And this was all very exciting and flattering, till they asked what I made. I told them. “Are you willing to be flexible on that salary?” they asked. The TELEVISION NETWORK asked. I was working for an independently owned court reporting agency at the time, proofing depositions. Who do YOU think had a bigger budget? Give me a break.

“I’m willing to be flexible about my salary going UP, sure,” I said. And that was the end of my relationship with E Exclamation Point.

And see? I could be starring in the very intelligent The Royals right now. Or I could be proofreading it.

I gotta go.


P.S. My yard is pretty and I keep forgetting to show you. (Oh my GOD, June, you’re supposed to get to work.)

Peg’s tree, at the front, here, has both white AND pink flowers.


And my drag-queen-colors bushes are in bloom




Okay. I’m really going to work now.


hey. GuRl leef compewter onn. dO someWon come to leT steeeelee out? miSTEAK been maade. STeeeleee need owet. OWT. OWWT.

...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Am British · June can't keep a man

June reviews her Christmas dates, and she’s plum tired. BAH.

Last night, I went to bed at 10 to 8:00. That’s the nice thing about migraine–you get your rest.

I am in a streak, a migraine streak, since before I left for Michigan. I’ve had a damn migraine every day since Sunday. Welcome back to Greensboro! So, last night, I trudged home gingerly, as opposed to MaryAnn-ly, fed the 90 pets, and said, “Edsel, I’m just gonna lie down for a bit.”

Not that he didn’t follow me down the hall with Blu once I said that, dropping it dejectedly when he figured out he wasn’t coming with me. And yes, I felt like a dick.

The point is, next thing you know my alarm is going off and I’m in all my clothes. So. Nice. Nothing feels better than waking up in all your clothes, like you were camping.

Oh, and also, speaking of Edsel, who in case you didn’t know is my gay dog, like anyone just got here. But speaking of Edsel, I have a problem…

IMG_2368.JPGI’ve set this room up so that there is now a chair next to the window where the cats eat. This means that stupid Edsel, ON THE DAILY, gets on the chair and eats all the leftover food. Today, he NUDGED LILY OUT OF THE WAY so he could eat her food.

And yes, I yell at him and he turns into a contrite letter C, until the next mealtime, when he gleefully and gayfully does it again.

Surely I can’t be the only person here who owns a cat and a dog. Where do YOU feed your cats so the dog won’t eat it?

IMG_2367.jpgAlso, my building shares office space with a few counseling offices. Say “office” one more time. Anyway, they’re having a toy drive, which is really a bad idea. Adult humans should really be the only ones driving.

Anyway, every day, Elmo, Big Bird and some blue character–did they update their blue character since the Cookie Monster, which is where I left off in 1971? Anyway, every day these three characters are doing something funny at the box. Sometimes they’re just staring through the carton-holder openings.

…Oh my GOD, you guys. See that text, above? I wrote that, and 900 MORE PITHY WORDS this morning, and when I hit “publish,” it published my headline and NOTHING ELSE. All I was able to get back were these first paragraphs, and YOU MISSED ALL MY PITH. So here I am again, 86 calls to WordPress, AT&T and AppleCare later, at lunch, trying to write you again.

What I was telling you, before the goddamn internet ruined my goddamn life, was that tonight is my work Christmas party, and yes, they call it a “Christmas” party.

b253c-6a00e54f9367fb883401543860ae67970c-pi.jpgThe first year I worked there, in 2011, my date was Dick Whitman.

In 2012, they’d laid me off and brought me back as a contractor, and I wasn’t invited to the Christmas party. Hmph.

965838_10152064488943850_1095438410_oIn 2013 and ’14, I went with Ned.

Then we broke up, as we are wont to do, and in 2015 I took The Naughty Professor.

6a00e54f9367fb883401bb0898356d970dAnd then in 2016, I got back together with Ned, as we were wont to do NOT ANYMORE but we were then.

IMG_3920We had both gained eleventy hundred pounds. What stress? And by the way, since Chippiegate 2017, I have done Weight Watchers NOT AT ALL, but I got back on that wagon today. Gained back four of the 10 pounds I’d lost, dammit, but still. I’m thinner than old Big Dot up there in m’polka-dot dress. Old Tri-Chins, up there.

Anyway, this year I’m going alone. Alooooone. ALONNNNNNNNE. I’m going with six fewer pounds and one less man.


Oh, it’s fine.



This year, the event is at the country club, which is exciting because that’s near my house, given what a fancy neighborhood I live in. I live in fancy-adjacent, really. When I first moved here, I told someone what street I live off of, and I remember the person asking which side of Battleground was I on, which is the dividing street between fancy and not fancy. Why didn’t the person just go ahead and ask, “You got money?”

Which, by the way, I do right now. I got paid last night, and I got my monthly deposit from Amazon THANK YOU OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, and also I got paid yesterday for doing that freelance work I never shut up about last month, a check that has four digits in it.

This means I’m considering getting my new dishwasher, or alternatively, tiling the floor in the terrible room with that concrete floor. I’d like to put in some kind of retro-looking linoleum, which does anyone remember where I found that stuff? The really good pretty linoleum? I talked about it before, but now I’m all, where WAS that, even? Does anyone know? I think it was technically a linoleum company from England. I’ll never find it again I HATE EVERYTHING.

Anyway, which should I do? Ooo, Ima add a poll. That always goes so well, when we do that.

I promise you this post was a lot funnier THIS MORNING before I had to remember what I said and re-create it all crabby-like, but I leave you with this…

it dooo fit. dooo not a quit.

I put this puppy bed, fmr., on my dining room table, fmr., which now resides in my computer room, fmr., and does anyone local need a very long table? Anyway, I thought it’d be a nice place for cats to lounge in private, and yet? No one used it. My cats never use actual cat BEDS I provide them–they’d prefer Edsel’s bed or my bed or my clean clothes or anything that inconveniences me. Nevertheless, yesterday Steely Dan suddenly embraced the puppy bed, and for that I am grateful.

I leave you now but I’ll be back to give you a poll. Which is what HE said.

Hoping this doesn’t all DISAPPEAR INTO NOWHERE.

Invisible June

Am British · Beauty products · Family · Hulk's sex life · June doesn't know any ugly people · Money · My pets

June wraps up her trip; bored nation rejoices

If you’re just getting back from your Thanksgiving holiday, and I say “holiday” like we’re all British, there are several days of my posts for you to catch up on and I wish you luck. I wish you luck mucking through all my ins and outs.

For the rest of you, who kept up with me like good readers, here’s the rest of my trip back to Michigan…

IMG_E2204.JPGWhen we left each other yesterday, saying, “No, YOU hang up,” Gus had been doing tricks in my mother’s yard, fmr., and then I might have kissed him with my red lipstick. I remember back in the ’90s, kissing my mother’s fluffy white Samoyed with my then-fushia lipstick, and my poor beleaguered stepfather in the kitchen, patiently washing it off that dog’s head.

Oooo, speaking of lipstick…


Both on the way to Michigan and on the way back, I may have looked with rapt interest in the Mac store at Chicago airport, noting these lipsticks were all for sale as one unit, a unit someone might like, if someone were trying to determine what June Would Like For Christmas, a query that’s burning in the brains of just er’one.

I’d look like an asshole in the second-from-the-left one. That burnt orange look does not appeal. But speaking of needless purchases, isn’t it Cyber Monday? Wouldn’t this be an excellent time to link to Amazon, so you can purchase like a mo?

Oh, look! A book about how we shouldn’t consume, that if we click on it takes us to Amazon so we can consume. Oh, June, you’re so ironic. Don’tcha think. A little too ironic. Yeah, I really do think.

But I digress.

On Friday night of my trip to Michigan, my Aunt Kathy had us over for tacos, and by “my Aunt Kathy,” I mean my Uncle Bill made tacos.

IMG_2211 2.jpgSome families form a conga line. We form a taco line. [Insert taco/Katie-the-lesbian joke here]

IMG_2212.jpgMy Aunt Kathy, who is a Virgo, had already decorated for Christmas. Like, that day. She started the day with no Christmas, and by the end of the day she was swinging on her North Pole.

Do you remember that guy Ward who I went out with like three times or something, and then it didn’t work out? He texted me over the holiday (British), and I answered him, telling him how all the women in my family prattle endlessly and all the men are sort of quiet and introspective. Okay, not my Uncle Leo. But the other men. Anyway, below is yet another piano-playing video, this time not horrific like the last one, where one of the men is being deep and yet you can hear women prattling in the background. I recorded this for his listening pleasure. I think it was around then that he stopped texting.

In summation.

IMG_2217.jpgAfter dinner, my cousin Big June and her husband Hill came to surprise me, and it was so cute to see them. She gets migraines, too. Is plagued by them, actually.

Maybe had I not been named after her I wouldn’t have migraines. Maybe they could have named me after a tennis star or something instead. Step one: Get tennis star in family.

fukking schtopz

Also, here is my aunt’s cat, Tom Thumbs. Did not at all follow Tom Thumbs around like an idiot, scooting across floor with phone out like a moron. That would not be fittin’. Did not at all call him kitty head or sweet kitten or kitty hitchhiker kitten face wif thumbses.


Finally, it was Saturday and time for me to go, but not before Hulk rejected me for sports. Also, Dear June: *of.

IMG_2239.jpgI returned home without incident, late Saturday night. It was too late to get Edsel from daycare, so I slept with Lily, who was beside herself that I’d returned, and if you look carefully, you can see an extremely indifferent Steely Dan down the hall.

hooo gif shit

IMG_E2246.JPGThe other, more normal, cats were happy to see me, in their cat way. “wee not say hi, but we sleep on you a lots.”

The cat-sitter told me that every day, SD and Lily would come blinking down the hall, like, O, do someone bee heer? And every time, Iris was asleep in the dog bed.

Speaking of my cats, I was writing you in my regular fashion, not that I’m pooping, when I saw this shadow…

IMG_2264.jpgHere’s the annoying part: I’ve already let him in today. But there he is, mysteriously on the other side of the door, as he is wont to be. And yet, he still wishes for me to get up and let him in the traditional way right now. Sneak out whatever way he’s figured out? Sure. But inconveniencing me to come back in? Oh, HELL, sure. So many sures.

IMG_E2274.JPGIMG_E2275.JPGAnd he wasn’t hungry; he’d already eaten. He wasn’t sleepy. Evil rarely sleeps. He just wanted to be sure to remind me that my coffee repels him. My coffee should be stopped. As soon as he can gather funds, he’s going to bribe a lobbyist to get coffee outlawed.

IMG_2278.jpgAsshole. Why do I love him so? This sums up all my relationships.

I’d better get to work, which I am actually looking forward to doing. Tomorrow is my mammogram, which has not haunted and terrified me since I made the appointment or anything. Do you all know from EMDR? It’s a kind of therapy they do for trauma. I really think I should get EMDR so I’m not so



during mammogram week. Am considering.

Meanwhile, here’s an Amazon link again, in case it inconveniences you to scroll up. I want to make it was easy as I can for you, so that I will become a millionaire. Also, I got my new credit score today, and it’s in the high 700s.

You know, at the beginning of the year, I made the New Year’s resolution to fix my finances, and I actually did it. I worked freelance jobs ALL YEAR LONG. And I got my debt cleared. And I upped my contribution to my four oh wonk.

I still don’t make a lot of money, but at least I don’t have debt haunting me. Just mammograms.

Anyway, here’s your second Amazon link.

Resent. Also, wish Crazy Cat Lady ornament did not look so much like self.



P.S. Someone will ask, so I will assure you I got the Eds from daycare Sunday, and he was…enthused about seeing me.

IMG_2249.jpgI had a migraine (thanks, world), so he spent the entire day with his snout up on my berobed self. No, seriously. THE ENTIRE DAY.

IMG_2254.jpgSteely Dan made barf sounds from across the room and rolled his orange cat eyes.

1136 words, dear god,


Am British · June's stupid life

I’ll worry about that when I get to it

Something woke me up last night–I can’t even remember what, now, but it was something I should probably be planning or preparing for, but what I did instead was roll over, thinking, “I’ll worry about that when I get to it,” and realized that will likely be my epitaph, which, by the way, June, nice 401(K). Continue reading “I’ll worry about that when I get to it”

...friend/Ned · Am British · Eyebrows Light and Dark · June can't keep a doctor · Music

It was the 3rd of June, another sleepy dusty Delta day. Volume XVIIIX934X

I’m only writing at you because it’s our day.

A few years back, when I sat next to my boss, fmr., he and I got into one of our 408-minute discussions about Things That Didn’t Matter and gee, I wonder why they split us up. That day, the discussion centered on what did Billy Jo McAllister toss off that bridge? Continue reading “It was the 3rd of June, another sleepy dusty Delta day. Volume XVIIIX934X”

Am British · I am high-maintenance · Money

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

hullo, I'm cute!

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

even my kee is cute!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

June speaks

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

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

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

First one, about a month ago…


About a week after that…


Last week…


Last night…


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

Shut up.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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


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


Here's me knowing I'm ridik.

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

He was dead.

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

So that's my sad story.

"June saw a dead turtle."

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


Jooooooon and her vibes

Aging ungracefully · Am British · Faithful Readers · June's stupid life

The state of things

You know what's gonna happen today? No one will comment. That always happens after a 200- or 300-comment day; it's like you're all so exhausted. "Oh my god, I just wrote 15 words to June yesterday. I'm all in."

Did your grandma used to say that? "Heavens to Betsy, that party was long. I'm all in."

Anyway, that was fun, right? Or was it just fun for me, kind of like any time I have sex?

If you just got here, and welcome to earf (remember that movie?), yesterday I asked you where you were from. I wrote down each state that was represented until after work, when I got bored of writing down each state (I loved it when people said things like, "I'm from Esentbergstein!" with no state name, like I'd know where that was. I also got people saying things like, "Hailing from the Emerald State!" and I'd be all, Oh, crap, now I gotta look that up).

(It's exhausting to Google. I'm all in.)

Anyway, last I checked, 40 states were representin' and also 1990 called and wanted its phrase back. Plus also too, we had seven other countries checking in! We are all so totally the It's a Small World exhibit right now. You're welcome for that song in your head, which will stick there like tar in the recesses of your brain for at least the next nine days. Fucking Disney.

Oh, the other countries were Germany, Australia, Denmark, New Zealand, England, Ireland and Canada. Oh, Canada.


Faithful Reader Amish Annie made a map with fuckstick hearts on it, and I stole it from her yesterday afternoon and it isn't up to date, because Fawn Amber checked in from Alabama and there isn't a fuckstick heart on Alabama. Plus also, only four Post-Its for other countries. So. GOD, Amish.

Do you know what I hate? Oh, wait. I should have told you to brace your own self. I hate something.

I hate it when people call them "Stickies." What the fuck. "Post-Its" has the same number of syllables, so you can't say you're pressed for time, and IT'S THE RIGHT NAME. "Will you hand me the yellow stickies?" How 'bout I hand you my dick?

I seem to be big in this state, North Carolina, and let's face it. I'm big everywhere. Do you have any idea how many Weight Watchers points are in Pop Tarts? I FOUND OUT THE HARD WAY.

"You're not supposed to eat first and look up the points later," my mother said. Also, every man at work, when I complained about this, said, "Points?" Fuck men. Which I will never do, because big in NC.

Anyway, I also had a lot of readers on Texas and California, but they're big states, so.

Have you ever noticed when people say where they're from, they often tell you the region as well? "I'm from southern Illinois." Oh. Hunh. I mean, if you were from NORTHERN Illinois, then we'd have to get ready to rumble. I remember my idiot neighbor in LA, Rik, telling me he was from northern Italy. Oh, NORTHERN Italy. Well.

And just one more thing and I will drop the Map Talk With June. I look on Google Adsense, and every day (not weekends. So not every day. Whatever. Hand me a yellow stickie) it says I have around somewhere between 2,000-3,000 readers. Wait. Lemme go check.

…Okay, yesterday I had 2,555 readers, with 315 comments.

Do I really only have 300 readers, who check back in so many times a day that it counts as 10 times that much, or do I really have somewhere around 2,000 readers and most of them won't comment? I read somewhere that you usually get about 10 percent of your readers to speak up.

I don't know. That's only interesting to me, so I will mull it on my own.

OH MY OWNNNNNN! How I wish musicals wouldn't pop into my head.

In the meantime, the guy who power washed my house just texted, and he's on his way over to paint the porch today! Does anyone else watch the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? Any time I say "paint the porch," I hear, "pat the puss, pat the puss…"

(The first person who doesn't know how a gif works gets stabbed with a yellow stickie. CLICK ON IT to get it to stop, if that is distracting you.)

It'd be sad if I were the only person in America watching Real Housewives and they kept it on just for me.

He had the flu last week, my power wash guy did, and then it rained, and it's finally pat the puss day. I'm so excited. He's also gonna cut my lawn, which sounds like a euphemism. According to my mind, I have a big day ahead of me, what with the puss pattin' and the lawn cuttin'. Really Ima just go to work and come back to a white house. With black curtains. At the station.

That's white room, isn't it? Dammit.

I'd better go to work. Other than hearing from people all over the world yesterday, it was a pretty copacetic day, oh, other than that a Golden Retriever followed us on our walk and I thought Edsel was going to have some kind of breakdown. He kept looking behind us and whining, and pulling, and making groan sounds like Regan in The Exorcist.

The Golden Retriever was lovely of course, all gleamy and long-furred, and the asshole girl walking him (TAKE ANOTHER STREET. You can tell my dog is obsessed. GOD) was young and cute. It was like our more-attractive selves were walking behind us. Some young perfect blonde girl in her running shorts, walking perkily, then my hagged-out 50-year-old ass galumphing with underbite dog.

Next time I'll let Edsel go, let him kick that golden dog's magnificent ass.


Oh, and Iris relaxed. She's exhausted at night these days, it being her busy season and all.

Okay, goodbye America. Other than the Dakotas. Go fuck yourself, Dakotas who don't read me.


June the puss

P.S. Updated map at 9:27 a.m., thanks to Amish Annie…

Screen Shot 2016-03-29 at 9.26.21 AM

Am British · Family · June's stupid life



You've no idea how much time I spend watching this now. I count how long she squats, how successful she is. Also, why the hell don't I have grass anymore? What are you supposed to do about that?  There used to be grass back there.

The vet gave me some choices, and I'm opting for the change-her-diet, test-for-cancer option. The other was to drive her to Raleigh and get all sorts of dye x-rays and so on. The reason we didn't do the cancer test in the first place is it's, (a), $200, and (2), has a lot of false positives. But it if reads negative, it's really negative, so at least we can rule it out if it's negative.

So, to get that test, I had to do the urine test on my dog. It was almost impossible to get her to sit on the toilet and pee in that cup.

What I HAD to do, smarty, is follow her around, which I've been doing anyway, and put a tray under her. Worked like a charm. We squatted out there for a century while she strained, and her thigh muscles must be bangin' cause good lord. Then when I finally captured her urine on film, I dashed to my deck where I had a syringe, got it in a test tube, put it in a huge baggie and rushed to the vet, which was closing in 25 minutes.

One of my coworkers said, "Your neighbors must have been so glad when you moved back." I mean, really, I must provide hours of entertainment and dog barks. "Jeb, get to the winder. What in THE hell is Neighb-hair doing now? She got a baggie of pee."

I got there just in time, saw all the techs and receptionists, with whom I am best friends now. There's the one with the snake necklace, the one with the horrific voice and her loved ones should tell her. The older sensible lady with the tight perm who you want on your side when it comes to your pets.

I've been tempted to give you all the number of the place, so you can hear the one with the awful voice answer the phone. She's also the person who does the loudspeaker stuff. "We need Tallulah Gardens to come to the front, please." Oh god, it's high-pitched, it's cloying, it's loud. It's everything you don't want in a voice. She's nice, though. Dat voice, tho.

Also too, today at 2:00 I get a crown put on. Because I am a princess. I need TWO crowns, and I could have a new nose if you combine all the Tallulah dollars and the dental work. My appointment is 2/2 at 2:00. For my TOOth. See what I did, there?


I was about to upload pictures of my grandmother that an old family friend sent, but I saw this and had to show you. Lu and her hoof. She freaking loves that awful hoof.


My grandmother, at work, when she was about 53. Smokin' at work, man. That's where it's at. My aunt said that was a Pendleton jacket, and that jacket is so her. Plaid and sensible. With beige. I dress nothing like the grandmother I'm turning into. She'd be appalled at all my pink. She'd call it "jakey." Whatever that meant.


I wonder if my hair is that gray. Oh, hell, of course it is. Maybe I should get all unfussy on your asses and let it grow out. Hang my gray flag high.

That's never going to happen.

We should really bring back goldenrod curtains.

Anyway, it was nice to see photos of my grandmother that I'd never seen. That's always such a cool idea, sending someone photos they may've never seen. Dear Enormous Member Steve: Do you still read my blog? I have pictures from Charlie and Sue's wedding that I'll bet they've never seen. I caught the bouquet. And a mere seven years later, I was married. It DOES work!


I've got to stop playing with my makeup app. This thing is my crack. What do crack addicts say? This thing is my coffee. This thing is my Breaking Bad. Maybe they just go ahead and say "crack," too.

I leave you with one final thought: I hate Siri. You speak into her, she screws it up. You type, she autocorrects so you look like you've had a stroke. Here's me trying to text with FR Fay the other night. Here's me trying to tell her someone is moving to Massachusetts.


Goddammit. I kept screeching into the phone, "MASSACHUSETTS! MASS A CHUUUU SETTS!" How do you get "Mickey said she was sick it's" from MASSACHUSETTS?

"Jeb, git over here. She's gone and done lost her mind. She's in her house screaming, "Massachusetts. Damn Yankee."

And here was me trying to say, "Fuck," which of course Siri corrected to "Juno," as you do, and then "goddammit." Siri cockblocks my cursing.


Juno. How often does anyone not in Alaska say "Juno" rather than "fuck"? Juno you, Siri.

Okay, talk to you when I'm rockin' out with my new crown out.

Princess June. Juno. Fuck.

...friend/Ned · Am British · Friends · June's stupid life

The pot returns

When we last spoke, it was Christmas–and you know how I love it, give me Christmas 40 times a year. At any rate, I was blogging at you and everything was copacetic till the phone rang.

It was Ned.

Dun dun DUNNNNN.

I'd taken Ned off my contacts list on my iPhone, so when he rang (am British), it didn't have his signature train whistle sound effect. He used to live four inches from the train tracks, and so I'd made his ringtone a train whistle. Plus, he absolutely loved getting all his friends together to pull a train on me. It was so romantic.

Anyway, so the phone rang like a normal person, and I figured it was some relative calling to say Happy Christmas because we're British, then when it was Ned I got all twitterpated. "NED!" I said, and I literally said "Ned." He laughed.

We both abhor this holiday, and his was officially over, so we got up for a Christmas drink at the place where we had our first date. It's a hotel, so it's open. Not that we had a date at the hotel. TJ Hooker, over here. I mean, it IS a hotel, but our first date was at the hotel bar. Calm down.


Am particularly glad that I captured Ned, in what is probably the last picture of us, in my sparkly reading glasses. And also paying. Which is how God intended it.

Aw, Ned. Look at him. I've always admired his nose, which ends the way I want mine to, instead of having its grand finale at the ball. Letting the ball drop. It was nice to see him and his nose. And yes, I did get my pot back. How Stella got her pot back. Shut up.


Anyway, that was that. I am not reuniting with Ned.

I am also not reuniting with the Tall Boy, with whom I hung out yesterday.


Mostly because he's turned himself into a chair. Billy Jean is not my lover. She's just a girl who thinks that I am the one. But the CHAIR is not my son.

There's a story behind this chair. See.

I'm on the lookout for two floor lamps, cool ones; and an ottoman, an old leather one to match m'face; and also a couch. My mother is helping me buy a couch as part of my Christmas gifts. Christmas. I'll abhor it, yet I sure will take your gifts. Just another reason June is an Asshole.

Now that we don't have a June Advent calendar, maybe we need to get a June's an Asshole list. Like Santa's list, only longer.

Anyway, this means I spend quite a bit of time at this antique/secondhand shop near here, the same place where Ned and I got that tall bed. Yesterday, instead of seeing a couch or a lamp or an ottoman that matched m'face, I saw this office chair. I've been LOOKING for a chair like that for quite some time. Also, is it possible for me to take any photos in my house without a pet in them?

Photo on 12-23-15 at 6.51 PM #3


At any rate, I snatched that office chair right up, bought the shit out of it, and brought it home. Tall Boy and I had plans to go to a movie, and he said he'd ride his bike over "around 2:00," and knowing the German Tall Boy, that meant he'd be here AT 2:00 OH MY GOD NO STOPPING HIM GET OUT MY WAY BIG BEN, IT'S 2:00 AND I'M GERMAN.

At 2:00, the doorbell rang. "Oh, good, I just got here with my new office chair. Come admire it." I swirled around in my chair seductively.

"It's missing a caster," said detailed Tall Boy.

What? Son of a …

I called the damn store, and they said I was "welcome to come see if it fell off anywhere." This store is a HUGE storeroom, so I was looking forward to that.


So before we took off on Caster Find 2015, we fortified ourselves with Prosecco. Nothing says highfalutin' like sparkling wine in a Mason jar. It was the Tall Boy, in fact, with whom I had the conversation long ago that you never, ever add the "g" to "highfalutin'" and they should just change the spelling of the word. Also, nothing is ever lowfalutin'.

I just noticed there's a pet in that photo. Jesus, with the pets.

Our plan was to go see the movie Joy, but when we got to the theater, hey, guess what? It's the Saturday after Christmas. What people? I really feel like, as someone who goes to that theater three times a month EASY (see above ref to hotel on first date), I should get some sort of VIP pass to walk past the riffraff and right up to the popcorn. We stood in the line for a minute, but gave up. "There'll be even another line at the concession stand," TB pointed out, which is crucial. I don't understand people who go to the movies and breeze past concessions.

"Since we're here, can we go to Trek?" he asked, and I had no idea what that was. Was that like a Dirty Sanchez or, worse, a Cleveland Steamer? One delightful thing I learned from seeing Ned the other night was what a Cleveland Steamer was. OH MY GOD NOT LITERALLY. I mean, we Googled it in the midst of our conversation. I feel like Prince Rainier never said to Grace Kelly, "You don't know what a Cleveland Steamer is? Get your phone, we'll Google it."


It turns out, unfortunately, that Trek's a bike shop, and all you women who go insane over the Tall Boy will be interested to hear he bought fingerless gloves, and the extra large was too small for his hands, and he had to ask if they had extra, extra large.

And a thrill went up over the land.


In the meantime, since I'm never IN a bike shop, I wandered around and giggled at seventh-grade-humor things.


Breaking the friction barrier!

Tall Boy and the earnest bike salesman were having quite a time, with their bike talk. They SPOKE quite a bit. HAH! Eventually, emboldened by Prosecco, I announced, "I don't know how to ride a bike!"

It was like when EF Hutton talks.

"Is she even allowed in here?" asked Tall Boy.

After that, we headed back to the damn antique store, and Tall Boy got all, "I've been looking for a side table. I've been looking for a chair. I've been looking for a red suede pump," until I had to remind him we were there ON A MISSION. A CASTER MISSION. And right when I said that, Tall Boy said, "Here it is!"

And there it was! On top of a desk, about 200 feet from where I'd found the chair in the first place. I mean, WHAT WERE THE CHANCES we'd actually find it? We took that motherfucker and got out the store. And as you can see from the first photo, it's already fallen off again. Son of a …

But cool chair, right? I'm in it right now. How do you screw in a caster? How do you mend a broken heart? Step one, don't sleep with your ex because it's Christmas.

Oh! Oh oh oh! And I FINISHED MY STATISTICS TEXTBOOK! FINISHED! Oh my god, that was torture. But now I get to spend that money! Fleeta, at work, asked me how much of it I'm gonna save. God, don't you just hate the youth of today?

I'd better go. I'm off to see and be seen. By pets.



Am British · June's stupid life · My pets · Times I Amused My Own Self

Where June somehow mentions Princess Di, human trafficking and QVC in one post.

At work, a bunch of us are doing Dresscember, which is this challenge where you wear a dress every day in December, even on your ding-dang days off, as kind of a fundraiser to say, hey, I hate human trafficking.

I HATE Uncle Jamie.

Do you want to know what annoys me? Is just try to get one simple sentence that is SPECIFIC about this event. Here is the website for Dresscember. I linked you above to where you can donate to my specific fundraiser, because I know you're saying, "It's December! I'm not spending my money on anything else. Why not June's cause?"

Oh, and here. This was the best (edited by me) paragraph I could find on what we're doing…

Dressember opposes the worldwide trafficking and exploitation of women. Dressember works to rescue victims of slavery, sexual exploitation, and other forms of violent oppression. Those who participate in Dressember are supporting the abolition of modern-day slavery. 

What I have learned, as someone who writes and edits stuff you're supposed to want to buy for a living? Is once you've gotten really familiar with whatever it is you're selling or advocating or whatever? You get what's called the Curse of Knowledge. As in, you're too close to it and you can't explain it simply and clearly anymore. Like, did you ever have a doctor tell you what's wrong, but all his terms are so medical that you're all, what the…? Am I dying or do I have a cold? Of course, in my case, when you have a cold, you're basically dying.

Anyway, that's what I found with this organization, the Curse of Knowledge. They kept giving me vague, flowery descriptions of why I'm wearing a DING-DANG DRESS ALL DECEMBER–did I mention that?–and I just wanted a simple, declarative sentence that was, oh, precise.

The point is, I went stampeding into work yesterday in a dress. I own two dresses, one of them my wedding dress and the other my 1983 prom dress, and I walked in yesterday and there're all my coworkers, sportin' the pants. I put my hands on my be-dressed hips.

"I thought we were doing Dresscember!"

No one looked up. "We are. Today's November 30," said Fleeta.

Son of a…

So I'm wearing a dress again TODAY, which is enclosed for your viewing pleasure. Yes, that IS my Princess Diana ring from QVC. Shut up, dick. That was kind of Diana's signature line: "Shut up, dick."

I meant to take a picture of yesterday's dress I wore by accident, but you know Mondays are busy for me, as I have a Purple Clover deadline. Here, by the way, is last week's Purple Clover.

And here, once again, is the link if you wish to donate to the Dresscember cause. If you don't, you're saying you LOVE enslaved women. That's all. Don't feel bad about that. By the way, I'm the one who thought of our team name: Addressing the Issue. Love for self will never die. Love for self is here to stay.

In the meantime, tonight's my work Christmas party, and yes, we call it a Christmas party, none of this pussyfooting around. Everything's an argument anymore, you ever notice that? We got nervous people flapping their hands on one side saying we gotta include everyone, then we got the (let's face it) fairly bigoted folk on the other saying, Fuck that. Really, you're all being repugnant. Can't we just live and let live? Don't get your hemp blouse in a twist over a word, and don't get your Confederate flag all mussed over someone else's wants. Geez.

June for President.

Anyway, that's exciting, my work CHRISTMAS party and all. I'm going with my friend The Naughty Professor, who in fact used to work where I work, and he just left this year after about 109 years there.

Four years ago, I took Dick Whitman to my work Christmas party, and afterward we came back here for awhile, and as we were kibbitzing, my cat Roger opened the back door and ran out. He could open the doors. "Roger, don't go out," I yelled after him. That was the last I ever saw of him. He got out of my fenced yard, who knows how, into Peg's yard which is ALSO fenced, escaped THAT and got run over.

That was a terrible time. Roger was so effing cool. Anyway, I think of that every work Christmas party, so thanks, memories.

Shut up, dicks.


Am British · Family · June's stupid life

Turkey in the straw

I'm hoping for a light day oval pad at work, seeing as it's the day before a holiday. Now that I've said that, of course I will do nothing but run around like I work in an ER without the doctor salary.

Perhaps you're wondering what old June is gonna do for Thanksgiving, seeing as she spent the last three with Ned and now she's not. Perhaps you're wondering why June is speaking as though she is the queen all of a sudden, in third person and all. June wants you to know she is reciting all this in her head with the queen's voice, or maybe that's Julia Child.

Perhaps you didn't even give it a thought, what Ima do for THANKSgiving, as they say it here, to which I say, hunh. How you gonna keep your June's big book of events up to date?

I'm flying home. Tomorrow. I wasn't gonna do anything, thought I might stay home and open a nice wrist, but my mother insisted and footed the bill, so I found a flight out of here tomorrow morning and I get in at, like, 2:00. So that's good. It's not the busiest travel time of the year or anything so I'm sure that'll all go smoothly.

And no. No, person back in Michigan reading this, I DON'T have time to see you. I get there Thursday, leave Sunday. I don't have any days off left this year, so. The exciting news is, Ima see my Aunt Mary.

On my father's side, all that's left is my father–with whom I no longer speak–and his sister, my Aunt Mary, who has always been a perfect aunt to me. Seriously. She's only 15 years older than me, and ever since I can remember, we've hung out. I mean, she was the person in yesterday's story who'd take me to get doughnuts and then to the park. She also took me to the zoo approximately 484582043 times during my formative years, plus also to the head shop, which was a place I got my penny candy and I have no idea what she was doing there. I know she didn't smoke the pot. Maybe she just went there to see and be seen.

I'd visit her at college, and I remember going to class with her. She gave me a notebook and a pen, and I doodled and wrote stuff and minded my own business. I was never a very kid-like kid.

Anyway, the last time I saw my Aunt Mary was five years ago in Colorado. We'd gone there for her 60th birthday, my father and I did. That's the LAST TIME I saw her!

And it was just by chance we figured out we'd both be in Michigan. We were on the phone the other day and she said how her cat's gonna be mad because they're leaving soon to spend Thanksgiving with her husband's family.

"Wait. You're going to MICHIGAN for ThanksGIVING?" I said in the way normal people pronounce the word. Her husband, my nice Uncle Stuart, is from somewhere over on the left. Grand Rapids? Muskegon? One of those, over there.

So on Saturday, we're gonna get together. My whole family on my mother's side likes her, too. So I hope she gets to see everyone.

Once, when my Aunt Mary was in college, my Uncle Leo happened to be going to the same school. They'd been studying at the library all day and went to Big Boy on the way home. You know from Big Boy, right?


I feel like every place calls it something different. I can't even recall what it was called in LA; Marvin and I just continued to call it Big Boy. Maybe in California they called it Bob's Big Boy, is that right? Here, where they say THANKSgiving, they call it Shoney's. But anyway, Aunt Mary and her brother-in-law-ish by marriage, sort of, my Uncle Leo (Uncle Leo was married to my mother's sister, Aunt Kathy. Aunt Mary is the sister of my dad. What relationship does that give Uncle Leo and Aunt Mary? Pick up your pencils and begin) popped into the Big Boy.

This would have been the late '60s/early '70s.

Their food came, but it was all tiny. Teensy little hamburgers, the slippiest of fries. Like a regular meal, but doll-size. My Aunt Mary and Uncle Leo looked at each other, confused, when they heard laughing. All the guys in the kitchen were hippies, and they must have decided my aunt and uncle looked cool enough to play a trick on.


So that's my plan. Go to Michigan. See Aunt Mary and so on. Today at lunch I have to get pill pockets for Lu, not that she's going in a pocket, then schlep her, her pills, her pill pockets and her brother Edsel and take them to dog daycare. Oooo, why don't I link to the webcam so you can check in on them? The first person to say, "June, I can't see them!" before my lunch hour has to pay for daycare.

The cats will stay here and watch videos and get drunk, the way cats do when their mom is gone. They'll probably have boy cats over. Although last I checked, Iris told her boyfriend she doesn't want to see him anymore.


God, it's hilarious here at The Pie.

Oh, and speaking of pictures, I wanted to show you this.


No. It isn't.


It's Alex and Ryan, stopping by my desk last night before they left. Note night before last they both had on white, and now they both have on black.

That's Griff's sports page, there. Alex has pie crust. She put it in our freezer even though she doesn't work on our floor anymore. "Don't you have your own freezer upstairs?" I asked her. She ignored me. She also comes down to our floor for water, which is funny because Ryan goes UPSTAIRS for HIS water.

That damn millennial generation.

Oh, also…


Bitchy Resting Face Alex, the Other! She came back to town for THANKSgiving and visited us at work. She moved to DC for a job months ago. "Do we have to hug?" I asked her. She said we did. "I have to take your photo; my blog readers will be delighted!" I said. "Do I have to have a bitchy resting face?" she asked. I said she did.

So there you go! BRF Alex, back and better than ever. I don't know if I've ever mentioned to you all that her dad is, you know, MY AGE and he's super hot. If you think I was tasteful and abstained from asking how her dad was, you would be wrong. (He's fine. He's still with his girlfriend.)


Have a good THANKSgiving, or ThanksGIVING. If you have to go around the table saying what you're grateful for, I double-dog-dare you to say, "June's blog." No further explanation.



Aging ungracefully · Am British · Friends · June's stupid life

June French Presses On


Last night, after I left the Tall Boy and the Naughty Professor, I came home and unpacked. I have these pretty yellow and blue glass dishes from the '40s, and I wanted to place them in the kitchen windowsill. Next to the plate of homemade wishes. I remember Marvin not allowing me to place those teensy cute plates in the windowsill, "because they'll fall." Everything was a potential TRAGEDY with Marvin. Something dreadful was going to happen at every moment.

"You know what? Fuck it," I said, and that should be my epitaph. So far you guys have about 11,000 things to write as my epitaph. I set the pretty yellow dish up first, and was reaching for the blue, when


It came down. Fell right into the sink. And ONTO MY NEW COFFEE POT. MY NEW COFFEE POT THAT I LOVE!

That damn Marvin.

When I moved here, you guys told me to make a wish list and you'd get me stuff off it and I'll be damned if you didn't. I think my favorite thing was my new Bunn coffeemaker. Oh, I just loved it. Now the pot. In pieces. Hence today's french press, followed by a trip to Amazon's site to see if I can get a replacement pot. Goddammt.


I freakin' put 'em up anyway, the little plates. I won't be kowtowed. Gonna get some earthquake putty today. And thank god I had a french press at hand. I also have an old-timey metal coffeepot, but could not find the plug. Keep in mind how MANY DAMN BOXES I had to dig through last night to find either thing. 'twasn't attractive. What coffee addiction?

So before all pot hell broke loose, I got up with the Tall Boy and Naughty Pro last night. One of them had a crisis that would make excellent blog talk, but said person did not SAY I could reveal his innermosts, and I am such a magnificent person that I will not. But suffice it to say we'd all be gathered 'round offering our opinions for a change.

Tall Boy looks like Disapproving Jesus, which I assure you is the look Jesus gets every time he thinks of me. "Oh, June? June Gardens? Yeah. [See look above]."

I know you may be wondering, "How did June DO all this with that cold?" and I was wondering the same thing about myself the whole time. I actually left work at 4:00, with the promise that I'd get something done this weekend, so I could nap and get my strength back for a night on the town with NP and TB. MY name should be TB, what with the hacking.

We had a good time, though, and I know they'll both enjoy the cold they caught from me. I'd invited Ryan to go with us, but he is sick with the same cold, and why don't you go ahead and be like everyone at work and assume Ryan and I made out at some point, like, say, when I time traveled to his age?

The point is, I wasn't feeling stellar and wasn't looking stellar, either. I mean, it's hard to quash this natural beauty but I think I managed to last night with my sniffing and so on. Also, I'd thrown on just anything once I emerged from my sick bed.

So naturally, that is why Area guy showed up right then. In he walked, alone and handsome, being all square-jawed and slightly unshaven.

"OH HOLY FUCK, IT'S AREA GUY!" I whisper screamed to TB and NP.

"?" said TB and NP, who are terrible blog readers. So I had to explain to them how for SEVEN YEARS I've had a crush on Area guy, even back when I was married, and how every so often I see him and turn into an idiot. I don't know if y'all remember, in your big book of June events, that I also saw Area guy back in October, at a bar, but I so did not care, because Ned heartbreak.

I mean, I still don't care, but I cared, you know, a smidge more. Every time I was ever with Ned and we saw Area guy, he'd say, "He just looks like a dude to me."

"He just looks like a dude to me," said Tall Boy, but Naughty Pro, Team Gay Naughty Pro, was on my side of things. He can see the appeal of Area guy, as can any person with any remote amount of taste, says June, insinuating that two men who have picked her at one point or another have, in fact, no taste.

Anyway, Wes grabbed my phone.


Here, in a historic moment never before seen on Bye Bye, Pie, is June's first picture with Area guy. Don't we make a lovely couple? Good lord, is that an AGE SPOT on my hand?

"Just looks like a melanoma to me."




Am British · Friends · June's stupid life

The one where June gets mad at the British, but not Kate. Kate will always be my boo.

The day Ned and I broke up, which is more than two months ago now, and I know. You're all, "Really? It's been that long already?" Yeah, why don't you go cram something in your nethers. I've felt every nuance of the pain of these last two months, but I'm super glad it went quickly for you. Really.

Anyway, the day we broke up, I called my tenant and told her she had to move, which I felt guilty about, but what're you gonna do? I toyed with finding a whole NOTHER place, then I remembered I have 26 pets. So.

The point is, I kept imagining my first weekend day in my old house. How I'd wake up to the sun shining in this back room. I could see myself padding down the hallway to make coffee, just like the old days.

Yesterday morning was my first weekend morning here, and it was fucking chaos.

On Friday night, a bunch of us from work schlepped out to this concert venue out at a farm, because our friend and coworker Molly was playing.

Here she is playing last year. I was at this concert, too. You can probably feel the June presence, can't you? I know. She just should have had me come up on stage. Do interpretive dance.

Anyway. It was outside, her concert Friday, and there were gonna be bonfires and so on, but I really had to get a warm coat. My regularly scheduled coat I'd thrown out in this move, as it was tore up from the floor up, as opposed to my current, hep lingo. REI was having a sale, so right after worked I tore over there. Tore like my winter coat, which is illin'.

As soon as I got there, I hated this British woman. She was the type who'd push all the coats aside for better viewing even though you were looking at the same rack of coats. Oh, don't mind me. I'll just imagine what they're like. That's fine. I'll go all John Lennon on the coats.

Then, I swear this is the truth, she TURNED THE MIRROR so she could see better WHILE I WAS LOOKING IN IT.

Hated. Hated the Brit. Wanted to go all Revolutionary War on her English ass.

After looking at 75 coats and bothering the REI saleswoman who desperately needed the Curly Girl method (she clearly brushed her hair. Dear curly people: Don't. Don't brush your hair. Unless the Voltaire look is your goal.), I picked up a coat. From the rack.

"That's mine," said the British woman.

"Yours?" Like, I thought maybe she came in with it and had inexplicably hung it up.

"Yes. I'm planning to buy that. I just put it back temporarily."

"You put it back on the rack and I was supposed to know you're buying it?" I felt my face grow hot. I'd detested this bitch since the second I'd walked in there. No. I'll bet I've detested this bitch all along, since birth, and I didn't know it yet. It's like how Michelangelo said the sculpture is in there, you just have to chisel it out. My hatred for this hose-faced nincompoop has been a part of me my whole life, like my blue eyes and "blond" hair.

"Yes. I just put it there temporarily," she sniffed. Literally sniffed.

You know that Harry Chapin song where he runs into his old girlfriend in his cab, and she gives him a big tip? And he says another man woulda been angry, another man woulda been hurt. Another man woulda never let her go. And Harry Chapin stuffed the bill in his shirt?

"You can have it," I said to this whore of Brit-alon.

"Well, no, if you wanted to buy it…" she said, pretending she had a considerate bone in her body.

"It's yours," I said, stuffing the bill in my shirt.

"You're so sweet!" she called after me. Bitch.

The point is, 7939302 words later, I got a really warm, layered coat, and I didn't feel a scootch cold all night. I went with Ryan, he was my date, even though I'm twice his age and he has a girlfriend who could kick my ass. Mostly because she's half my age. On the drive there, Ryan was playing a CD. "This is such a high school song!" he exclaimed.

It was from 2005.


The venue was the prettiest concert space I've ever been to. Oh, it was gorgeous. And they'd clearly put something in the bonfires that made them smell good. You'd wander around, and coworkers would pop up. Oh, there's Poochie and her husband, who'd brought not only chairs and blankets, but a whole table with a spread of snacks and champagne.

There's no-nonsense Fleeta, in just her chair. No need for more.

We stood with Bitchy Resting Face Alex and her spouse and I wouldn't shut up about the stars, and we all talked about how Molly should be famous and why wasn't she.

I really hate it when people put something on Facebook and just write, "This." Oh, shut up. Be more affected, why don't you? But I stood under all those stars, with people who are my friends, and looked around at that crowd of all kinds of good-looking age-appropriate men, and thought, "This." This is just where I want to be. I mean, it isn't. Where I want to be is happy with Ned. But since that's not happening, this is just where I want to be.

Every once in awhile I get a feeling in my bones that I will be okay. I won't be sad like this forever. And I have to take the happy moments when they come. So, this.

On the way home, Ryan, who is 26, stopped off at a barbecue place and got the BBQ plate, hush puppies, onion rings, a chicken quesadilla and some chicken nuggets.

"What? I work out," he said.

He ate that at 11:00 at night and then probably went to bed and didn't struggle with GERD in the morning.

As for me, I came home and stayed up awhile, took sad selfies.

Screen Shot 2015-11-15 at 10.11.55 AM
Hello, my name is Sad.

But I was FAST FAST asleep at 10:00 the next morning when that idiot rang my bell to do my yard. When I was moving, one of the movers said, "I also do lawn work. You need a lawn guy?" I really did. My yard was in shambles, weeds everywhere, and it was one of the things haunting me and making me overwhelmed. The guy said for $75, he'd clean it up. We agreed I'd leave a check in the mailbox and he'd just show up on Saturday.


"Oh, I hope I didn't wake you," he said as I went to the door with my mattress.

Fifteen minutes later, he RANG THE BELL AGAIN. You can imagine how calmly the dogs took this. "You got a outdoor plug?" he asked.

It wasn't long after that Marty Martin showed up, because he said he'd help me do manly things, such as hook up my DVD player. (Step one: Plug into back of TV. Step two: Plug into wall. …Oh.) You know that thing where you aren't in the room, really, you're so tired?

So, my Saturday a.m. Not the peaceful morning I'd envisioned. The lawn guy TORE IT UP with my yard, though, man. Hedges, trimmed. Weeds, gone. Leaves, raked. I mean, he was out there for ages. I know he hates me for giving him $75 for all that work.

I have to go. BRF Alex is on her way and we're gonna paint the bedrooms. It's my clever way of getting her into my room, where all the magic happens. And by "magic" I mean my sex life has disappeared.



Am British · June's stupid life

God Save the June

Every year, the president of my company, not that I own a company, takes everyone out for drinks on his birthday. I think it's a nice tradition, and I always go. This year we went to one of the new breweries, and last night I actually got to talk to him for awhile.

"Is today your real birthday?" I asked him. He said that it was. He's from England, and he invited us all to be there at "5.30." I am so going to dot my times rather than colon them from now on. Looks classier. Why do all British things look classier? You could be barfing Britishly and look classier.

My point is, I asked him if he knew about the song Ode to Billie Jo, which of course mentions the 3rd of June, and which all of us here seem not at all disturbingly obsessed with. He didn't think he had, and I have no idea what they play on the radio in England. Maybe they just have to listen to God Save the Queen all day. That'd be a treat. My point is, when I get in today, he wants me to send him that song, and I feel like I'm all, "This is America. I am sorry" with that ode. To Billie Jo. Pass the biscuits, please.

In other news, I went to my old house the other night.

IMG_4151_2Are you blown away? Are you trippin' out? Is this too much for you to handle?

IMG_4152OooooWEEEEEooooo! It's like my house, but not my house. I'm like one of those awful people who describe their dreams.

I don't know if you remember, or if you've written it down in your Giant Book of June Facts, but my tenant works at the same place I do, which happened after she moved in, and everything is weird. She even works in my dePARTment, a lot of times with Griff, and I feel sorry for her, as well.

IMG_4154_2She and her boyfriend, who also lives there, are going to Europe to listen to God Save the Queen on the radio, and clearly I don't charge enough rent. Also, do you like how somehow I get to my old house and all of a sudden the pictures get blurry again? It's like when you revert to old behavior when you're with your family or something.

IMG_4156_2I went over there because starting Sunday, which you know I will forget, I am going to be catsitting for her two cats whom you will be shocked to hear I love. This one just crossed that back room, The Francis Room, and leaped onto that windowsill like it was nuthin'. "Is that a, you know, young cat?" I asked her, because I couldn't even see Iris doing that move. "Yes, she's two," said My Tenant.

IMG_4161Then she went into my old coat closet (my closet! A coat closet! I don't have that here in this 1926 no-one-wore-clothes house) and got out a toy that made her cat go berserk.

IMG_4164Dying. I took about a hundred of these, and each time, that cat is a blur at the top of every shot.

I just turned around, and Iris is right behind me, starting at me pointedly. As pointedly as someone with no eyeballs can stare at a person. I guess she's mad I said she'd never have jumped onto that windowsill the way My Tenant's cat did, but she lived there almost three years and I never saw her do that once, so.

eyeriss resent.

IMG_4155Remember how, before I moved, I spent 200 hours sanding and painting and finishing this concrete floor? FLOOR. VEXES.

I'll take more photos when I'm there catsitting, if I remember to go and don't kill My Tenant's cats. I took some lavender from my yard before I left. I love my lavender. I bought one little tiny thing of it at the farmers market no apostrophe and now it's gigantic.

That's what she said.

IMG_4176I guess that's all I have to tell you, except that I got pedicures with my coworker Molly yesterday, and I told her to look happy and she is good at taking direction. I got a turquoise color, and she got a dusty pink.

Because it was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty Delta day.