Bonne Bell. Bewitching me since 1976.

My father used to have this trick egg.

It seems like such a dad thing to do, and my father doesn’t do a lot of those dad things, like have elbow patches or put memes up about how he’s going to murder all my dates.

Those always seem creepy to me. Same as the shrill “Open Letter to the Future Bitches Who’ll Have the Nerve to Want a Healthy Adult Relationship with My Son” essays women pass around on Freudbook or wherever.

Anyway, the trick egg. It was plastic, and it stood on end. It balanced. And on the first day of spring or fall, he’d always find some yahoo to dupe. “On the very first day of [insert season here], the earth is such that eggs balance. It’s true.” He’d sound so convincing.

“Hang on. Let me get an egg out of the fridge.”

I would not wish for you to know that I was among the first people duped by this. I was 24.

And, AND, I helped him sneak the trick egg into my poor grandparents’ fridge so we could fool them. I deserve everything that happens to me.

The point is, every first day of spring or first day of fall, not only do I have to get annoyed by Facebook updates that capitalize the season (It’s Spring! I love Fall!) (Well, you’ve ruined the season for me, USELESS CAPPER), I also find myself wondering if I have that trick egg.

I never HAD the trick egg, except for that brief afternoon in 1989, when I had it in the pocket of my black cable-knit Gap cardigan, on its way to my unsuspecting grandparents’ egg tray. Back when fridges had egg trays. And the Gap had cable-knit.

But somehow, the idea of the egg stuck with me. I thought of it again today, on the first day of spring.

5410894677_11387da84c_b.jpg(I also fell for what my father told me about those dolphins people hang from their rearview mirrors. “Are those dolphins just for looks, or are they air fresheners?” I wondered one day when we were driving around LA. “They’re a compass. They always twist around to point to the ocean,” he told me.


I was 35.)

There are some things in life that I keep wishing I had, things I didn’t usually have for very long. Barry Gibb once said in an interview that any time he passes a barbershop, he sort of wistfully wonders if they have Brylcreem. He KNOWS they actually don’t, and yet he wonders about it.

That’s how I feel about the egg, and also about this…


I owned two bottles of this. I’ve no idea why, other than of course I was seeking the liquid way to blush all day. Did someone give me both bottles? Was I on a shopping binge at 13? Because that’s how old I was when I owned this “cheek color.” Because it was gleamy. Never greasy. I looked just-blushed fresh.

I had a pink shade, and also a weird ginger, and I wore the weird ginger whenever I had on something brown. Which was often, because 1978. Am certain, in retrospect, that it did not flatter.

It’s safe to say I’ve owned a hundred blushes–sorry, CHEEK COLORS–since then, and I don’t even know that I LIKED this one that much, and yet it’s stuck with me. As has…


Aw, man. If I just had a little Bonne Bell “blushing gel,” just a pinch between m’cheek and gums, I’d be all set, man. That’s me: Subtile et durable.

I think my problem stems from my magazine habit in the late ’70s. I’d walk home from junior high (someone in the break room at work the other day didn’t know what “junior high” meant) in what I recall as always, always being the dead of winter (it was Michigan. There’s a 9 out of 12 chance it WAS winter), and there in the mailbox would be one of the many excellent magazines my grandmother had hooked me up with.


Hello. My lip gloss matches my earlobe infection. Won’t you enjoy my randy tie?

The very-originally named competition, ‘Teen.

I look sweater perfect. In more ways than ONE. Wink.

Do you know what I was doing when I holed up in our apartment reading Teen after school? I was getting more out of life.

I further received Young Miss. Grammy musta been blowin’ her pension on magazines for me, and was I ever grateful? No.

Hair goal: To look vaguely like a waffle cone.

She really was born to act. And she knew the right way to blow hyphen dry her hair. I saw Kristy McNichol once, at a Marie Callendars in the Valley. She looked pretty much like that. She was 42.

My grandmother even got me the hard stuff:

Christie Brinkley looks precisely the same today. She gets Ultherapy. So.

Aw, man, I wouldn’t even wait to thaw. I’d throw my puffy 1978 winter coat down, grab me some peanut butter and marshmallow fluff, and commence to reading every page of these magazines after school. Which explains your stellar math skills to this day, “Homework, Schmomework” gal. And I’m certain I read the stupid articles (Who could put down “How to have a great bottom”?), but what really got to me were the ads.

And lemme tell you something: The person who wrote those Bonne Bell ads knew witchcraft or something, because there wasn’t a straight girl alive in 1979 who wouldn’t sell BOTH ARMS to get her some Bonne Bell action. I’ll put that shit on with m’toes. Give me that Bonne Bell.

That copywriter knew how to bore into the soul of a teenager. It’s impressive work, really.

Has anyone seen my high-collared lace shirt? How about m’hairspray?

I remember wanting this the way I want a snow leopard now. It was going to be a party! For my LIPS! Do you even underSTAND how wonderful that was going to BE?

Eventually, I babysat enough horrific children that I had the two-fifty needed to purchase this necessary object. I can still taste it. It was a total party for my lips. Bianca Jagger rode a horse right across my lips.


THAT’S how big of a party it was.



Asked for it for my 13th birthday. GOT IT. Because it was important I get a super-dark tan in a hurry. I had places to go. Like the marshmallow fluff store. And the melanoma doctor.


I came into some money, like seven dollars or something, and walked all the way down to the GOOD drugstore on Court Street, there, next to Roy’s Steakhouse (The three people who read me in my hometown are all, yeah. Hell, yeah.) to get me some Ten-O-Six lotion. It was brown alcohol in a bottle. But those demons at Bonne Bell brainwashed me. My brain was washed in 70s-brown alcohol.

Oh, I’d dearly love to sniff a bottle of Ten-O-Six. I’ll bet it smells like 1978.

IMG_6190.pngI had all of them. Many, many children across Saginaw, Michigan were ignored, at a dollar an hour, in order to support my Bonne Bell habit.

And I know they make ’em now. But some asshole bought the company, and Dear Asshole Who Bought Bonne Bell:

You don’t fool us. Those lip smackers you sell at Target got NOTHING on the excellent flavors the real lip smackers used to have. Yours taste of plastic and ambition. Fuck you, buyers of Bonne Bell. You messed with our memories.

I don’t even LIKE Good and Plenty, and yet I still bought Good and Plenty. My best friend Beth had Bit-o-Honey, and I coveted.

So, I guess what I’m saying is, Bonne Bell is my trick egg. Bonne Bell is my Brylcreem. Hey, there are worse things. At least my lips weren’t hungry for flavor.

Bonne Bell Butler

Ned and June Put Edsel to the Test

“I have an all-day meeting and I’m getting out of work early,” said Ned, and “early” for Ned means “a normal time to leave work” in my world. Remind me to never be the president of anything. Except this nonblog.

“Would you like to have dinner? I’ll be early, so you can eat like the elderly, as you like to do.”

Back when we were dating, Ned would call me at, like, 8:00. I am not exaggerating for dramatic effect. He’d work till 6:00 or 6:30, go to the gym, drive home and then call and say, “I am starving.” That noon salad just wasn’t sticking with him eight hours later.

How did I not bludgeon Ned to death every day for four years?

So, him calling me at 8:00 meant he (a) was going to go to a restaurant at that point or (2) make something. From scratch. “I’m going to start the water to boil beans.”

Really, how DIDN’T I bludgeon him to death?

What this meant, when we were dating, was I had to starve till 9:00 in order to eat with him, or I’d eat like regular people, at around 6:00, and then have to hear the appalled speech when I’d announce AT 8:00 ON A WEDNESDAY that I’d already had dinner.

Later, I researched love avoidance and said, Ohhhhh. Okay. (It’s one of the things they do. They busy themselves. Oh, I’m so consumed. I can’t possibly actually sit and give you my undivided attention.)

My point is, here was Ned, willing to feed me on a Wednesday at 5:30.

I know you’ve all been lighting candles and keeping charts, so you know that I’ve had an ATM card saga. While I was out volunteering to make smocks for the homeless a few Friday nights ago, I accidentally lost my ATM card when a giant vat of whiskey sours landed in my throat. It was such a phenomenon. It was like the Northern Lights, with sour mix.

It wasn’t even GOOD sour mix. The whiskey sours I get at the fancy hotel near me? They make their sour mix right there. The whiskey sours I got on Lost ATM Night was shot from one of those soft-drink guns. I blame the pinball. I was so up in it that I didn’t notice I was having 49 drinks.

Oh my god, anyway. So I finally got an ATM card from my bank, and when I called to activate the card, they said, “For your safety, a separate letter with your PIN will be arriving.”

You have got to be fekking kidding me.

So now I have this limp ATM card, which at least allows me to go back to my Jimmy John’s delivery habit, but little else. It’s quite confining–and this is Shamrock Shake season! I realize I could drive to the bank and get out cash like I used to with my mom in 1972, but if I drive to the bank at lunch, pretty much that’s my lunch hour, and I keep saying, Oh, I can scrounge up something at home.

Hang on. Ima show you my exciting June’s-ATM-is-useless food supply at the moment.

WOOOT! Is it sad that the most abundant thing is cat food? Yes, June. It is.
The telltale to-go container tells you where this story is going.

I said yes to dinner. “After, can you help me give Edsel some tests?!” I asked. Because that’s the kind of standup person I am. You’ve offered to buy me dinner, and my reply is, “Only if you do something else for me.”

“Of course,” said Ned, as he likes Edsel.

Truth be told, I don’t really like going to restaurants. It’s never been fun to me. I have on-and-off years of panic attacks, and restaurants are a trigger for my panic attacks, because you’re stuck there. You can’t dash out 10 minutes later without making a scene.

I’m not in a panic attack cycle right now, I’m just in my regular low-grade anxiety mode that I’ve been in since I’m 8. I had a giant swath of panic attacks starting when I was 19 and ending when I was around 21.

Then on New Year’s Eve 1999, I had another one on a ferry and was tortured with them for a few years, and I’ve been fine since. Knock all of the wood, please.

The point is, because when I’m having panic attacks, restaurants are among my least-favorite things, I kind of hate them all the time. I dislike a lot of things many other people seem to love: Christmas, travel, live music, babies, football, hugging.

But you saw my cupboards. I went to the restaurant last night. Got spaghetti bolognese. Because I’m watching my figure (turn into Queen Victoria’s).

When we got home, we commenced to giving Edsel another of the Dognition personality tests with which I am so obsessed. This time, we tested his memory.

The first two or three tests I gave him the other night insisted I have a partner, with the caveat “if you don’t have a partner, go to our blog.” Well, I’m already HERE and I already watched the introductory video and NO. I’m not going over to your damn blog. Which is what you all say every day, and yet here you are.

So, despite the world saying I needed a partner, sister did it for herself, and it was fine. But since I HAD a faux partner in Ned (you’ve said a mouthful there, sister), I decided to see if it was easier.

It wasn’t.

Testing area

The way Dognition works is they tell you what aspect they’re going to test that time, using a brief intro video from the guy who most likely invented this whole idea. “Do you want me to wear my hair like that?” interrupted Ned, while the shaggy millennial spoke.

“Shhh,” I said, then inwardly giggled at the idea of Ned with longish bearded millennial Williamsburg unicycle shaggy hair.

After the intro, they guide you to a page all about this particular test. You can either read the steps, or watch another video where they show you the steps. I kind of do both at once.

“Are those guys gay?” asked Ned, as we watched two millennial men play memory games with their trendy large dog who I promise you they refer to as a “rescue,” a dog inexplicably named Kai.

“Kai? Are they saying Kai? Oh, those two are a couple,” surmised Ned, who really isn’t as homophobic as I’m making him sound.

“SHHH. Ned, I’m watching how to do this,” I said.

And, see, there was our problem. Because while I, superior I, was busy learning how to test Edsel’s memory, Ned was too busy mocking the video, and when I got started, he had the


to tell me I was doing it wrong.

“What–why are you–you can’t LIFT the cup. That’s cheating,” Ned would say, having not paid attention to one of Kai’s gay owners LIFTING THE CUP during the video.

Meanwhile, here was Edsel.

dees too again. why dey not just go no contack?

Eds was SO not into our testing last night. Some of it had to do with Ned and me bickering, and some was the part where you’d show him a treat, put said treat under a cup, then wait as long as two and a half minutes before he could retrieve the treat.

Lemme tell you who 100% forgot treats were ever invented in 2.5 minutes. That would be old steel-trap Edsel, up there.

Screen Shot 2018-03-14 at 8.26.44 PM.png

In summary, Edsel’s memory sucks. They tried to be polite about it, but later in the description they talked about how wolves and feral dogs have to hunt prey for hours, and while sometimes the prey isn’t in site, these wild animals remember the prey’s general vicinity and keep hunting.

“Edsel doesn’t have this instinct,” they euphemized, pretending it was because he was so well fed at home that he didn’t need it. They can’t come out and say, Your dog is sort of a dunce.

“There is no need to worry! It is just one more piece of evidence that Edsel has his own cognitive style,” they said.

Yes. His own cognitive style. That’s it.

Yu heer dat, Steeeleee? Eyeriss dyeeeng. Own cognitiff style.

I gotta go. I have to get in the shower and get my own style going. I’ve started Retin-A and remember that scene in Sex and the City where Samantha shows up to Carrie’s book party with the raw face?

Veil down, I think.



June is generally cranky.

It’s a cold, rainy, miserable Monday following stupid daylight saving, which is the perfect punctuation to a cold, rainy miserable weekend. Later today, it’s going to snow! In March! So then it’ll be a cold, snowy, miserable March Monday. In 11 years of living in NC, I have yet to encounter snow in March.

Right now, the rain is so cold that I took trash out to the bin, with the intention of rolling said bin to the curb, saw there was only one other bag in the bin, and said, “Fuck it.” That’s how cold and miserable it is. I’ll-live-with-trash-in-the-bin-for-another-week miserable.

I’m unsure if I’ve precisely expressed to you the not-pretty that is my weather.

And why’s it gotta be so goddamn early? What the Sam Philistine Fuck?

June’s blog. Come for the inspiration.

Anyway, when last we spoke, I’d had an unnecessary medical procedure guaranteed to make me look younger, which so far hasn’t kicked in. It hurts less, but mostly I have the agony of discomfort and none of the recaptured youth. In fact, with my broken toe–that is now on week 5 but is definitely getting better–I’ve done very little exercise and am starting to abhor self. I look even older and larger than when the weekend began.

Also, Edsel went to the vet Friday, and I say that like he said, “Taakking carr. Bee back soonz” but really I drove him. He had his bordetella, which is a shot dogs get so they can hobnob at daycare and in dog parks and at dog bars and dog sex clubs. It’s the condom of dog shots.

My point is, they weighed him at the vet and he weighs 50, which is an all-time high for the Edz. He weighs this much because we’ve gone on zero walks since The Toe Incident. I think I hobbled to the corner and back with him once or twice, but that’s it. I feel terrible about it, but what can you do? I can’t fekking walk.

So, today is out, because perhaps I didn’t mention the weather, but it’s poorly, the weather is. But tomorrow I’ll put on my folk fest shoes

How many shoes must a woman try on. Before you can call her a man.

and try to walk him at least two blocks. See if m’toe can deal.

…Just now, ridiculous Steely Dan asked to go out, and I say “ridiculous” because he IS ridiculous, and also because I asked him if he wanted to go out when I let Eds out in the yard for his morning constitutional, and I asked him again 20 minutes later when I let Eds back in, and both times he glowered at me from a foot away.

Then as soon as I got under Laila Ali


he started mowing and sounding pitiful and carrying on, so I got OUT from under Laila Ali


and opened the door.

He sniffed. Put a delicate paw on the cold metal threshold.

do steeelee LOOK like fan of watur?

Anyway, I understood his emotion, there, because in case I hadn’t driven it on home, it’s cold and rainy out. And miserable.

I got under Laila again


and seconds later,


For a big, hulking imposition of a cat, he has the girliest delicate meow. You’d think he’d be one of those Patty-and-Selma-meowing cats, all, MEOW. But he isn’t.

When I was a kid, we’d go to Rose Auto Supply to get gas. I liked going there because I liked the name Rose, and also, this ENORMOUS–I mean HUGE–guy would come to the window.

“Fill it up with regular,” my father would always say, and I never knew what that meant, but I also thought maybe he was saying, “Fill it up with irregular,” and that was even MORE compelling, but my point is, the gas-filler at Rose Auto Supply had




you ever heard on a man. He made Snow White sound butch. I was riveted by this anomaly, and in retrospect am certain I was not subtle in my fascination. Probably all kids were riveted by him, and I wonder if the advances in medical science could help that poor guy today, or if even now he’d be Squeaky Fromme.

I was similarly riveted by the waitress at Johnny’s Chick-Inn who had an arm tattoo. And the saleslady at Weichmann’s who had purple hair. No child would bat at eye at either of those today. But in 1968 in Saginaw, those were things to see, man. And why was my local downtown where circus characters all got work, I wonder.

My point is, I got up again and that gray bastard did the same thing all over, and now he’s wailing pitifully again in that squeaky Rose Auto Supply meow,

Photo on 3-12-18 at 8.18 AM #2.jpgand he can go fuck his own sleek self, is what he can do.

In case you wondered about my weekend, and who doesn’t. “I’d LIKE to begin work, but I just wonder what June did this weekend.” In case you wondered, I had a little personal challenge this weekend.

yuuu DID?

As you know, from having your finger on the pulse of June and all her events, I lost my ATM card last Friday due to whiskey sours that were FORCED down my throat, and I had to order a new one. ATM card, not throat.

At some point last week, I drove to the bank and wrote a check to Cash like it was 1969. I took out a hundred dollars, bought exactly $80 worth of groceries (I did that thing where I added up groceries as I threw them in the cart, and then knowing my maths worried that I’d get up there and be told, “That will be $467.48, please”) and then spent another 14 on god knows what, and the point is, I got busy Friday and forgot to go back to the bank.

So with $6, no ATM card and not even the ability to order movies and shows (because debit card locked), I couldn’t go anywhere or watch anything, you know what I did?

I watched Hot & Flashy videos. Do you know this woman? She’s our age, and she looks fekking amazing, and she tells you in great detail how she does it. For example, she has 11 cleansing/anti-aging steps each day.

She is my hero. And I’m champing at the bit to buy all her products, but see card, frozen. This is probably good, cause I mighta binged otherwise.

I see it’s already NINE FUCKING O’CLOCK and who set the TIMES forward, so I’d better go to work.

Chilled and not-that-flashily,

In which aspic is mentioned

When we left each other yesterday, slamming the door and saying, “IT’S OVER! I MEAN IT THIS TIME!”, I was going to try to come back here and write you at lunch.

That didn’t happen. Work. Tis busy.

So here’s a two-day update on everything that’s happening in my stupid world. I wish to tell you about Ned and Nancy, my broken toe (surprise!), stupid cosmetic things I did and also Steely Dan’s shenanigans. This is like when you go to a fancy event and they show you a little menu of what you’re getting.


Fresh radishes
Liverwurst finger sandwiches

No, I don’t know what kind of horrific imaginary fancy events I attend, either.

Ned & Nancy. An update.

I wanted to give you a visual, here, so I went to my pictures and searched, “cat,” and then my computer carried on with the guffawing. “Oh, THAT’S specific, June,” it said, as my computer is actually some kind of talking sarcastic animal like on The Flintstones.

IMG_4112.jpgHere. And lose the attitude, computer.

As you know–because for generations, your family will be gathering to tell my stories–Ned adopted Nancy, my foster cat. What with the losing her kittens and the going back to the shelter to get spayed and having a terrible time with her operation and possibly with being feral, she got to Ned’s and was not pooping in her box. Like, she was pooping all over yonder, including her food dish.

Ned did everything, seriously everything, so stop “Did he…”-ing me. The vet suggested he confine poor Nancy–which I just wrote as “poop Nancy”–to one small room, and leave her in there.

Guess what. It worked. It took several days, but for the past FOUR days, she has gone exclusively in her box. Ned is encouraged. “This weekend, I’ll move her up to the computer room,” said Ned. He gave Nancy a promotion.

Toe. An update.

As you know, because for generations your family will–oh, stop, June. M’toe is broken.

Yesterday, my doctor-recommended hard-soled shoes came. I worked from home yesterday, because I never thought about it much till it HURT, but it’s a long damn-ass walk from the parking lot to my actual desk, and it involves stairs, and ouch.

So I propped my foot yesterday, I was in the props department, and then when my shoes came, I hobbled to the door to receive them. It was like shoe communion.

Screen Shot 2018-02-21 at 7.59.15 AM

There they were. All flowered and shit.


I can’t wear them. I can’t get my foot in that little hole. I mean, I forced myself into said shoe like a wicked stepsister, and then it hurt worse once it was in there. So this weekend, Ima have to hobble over to DSW and look for something clog-ish.


Also, the part where it was almost evening and I was putting on shoes sent Edsel into fits of WE GONNA WALK joy, and I had to crush his dreams rather testily, as I was in pain and he was IRKING me.

Also, this morning, I was drying off after showering

(I’ll give you a moment to stop being turned on.)


and as I was drying off, I half paid attention (my epitaph) and sort of told myself, Remember your big toe is broken when of course




So now it hurts even more.

And, scene.

June’s a grooming asshole. An update.

Recently, I noted that there are many cute local stores and boutiques near me that I never go into. I always breeze past them as I’m on my way to get something else, usually a sandwich. There’s one sandwich place that’s been there since 1977 and they’ve updated the decor not at all, and I’m deeply in love with the whole atmosphere. I feel like I should be in there with my rainbow jeans and my Bass 100s.

Anyway, a few Saturdays back I decided to spend the whole day just popping into all those shops I never go in, and that is how I discovered the grooming place.

They might as well rename themselves June Store.

They do Botox and microdermabrasion, facial peels and makeup. They do manicures and waxing, they do all the shit I blow all my money on. I was there, innocently getting Botox when I found myself signing up for eyelash extensions.


It takes more than an hour, as you lie there and talk to a woman who sounds precisely like my pal Alicia, who is painstakingly attaching eyelashes to your lid, one by one. It lasts about a month–you’re supposed to go back and get touchups.

goddamn nose

But the thing is, they mostly all fell out. And I was all, Well, THAT was a bust, but in fact they texted me to ask how my lashes were working out. And that is the kind of person I am. I get texts asking, How are your lashes working out?

Anyway I told them and they’re redoing them all for free.

The interesting thing, and I may be alone in placing this under the category of “interesting,” is that you’re not allowed to wear mascara with these on, and as these are falling out I’m still not using mascara, because rule-follower.

The point is, I can see my real lashes now, and this is the longest I’ve ever gone without mascara since I’m 24 and went through a hippie phase. I mean, allegedly I take my mascara off, but those of you who groom know it’s never really off. There are always remenenenenants.

My friend’s grandmother could never say that word, so now I can’t NOT say “remenenenants” as well.

THE POINT IS, it’s really off. I mean, I have no mascara on these lashes. And what a set of namby-pamby Melanie Wilkes lashes these are. Holy cats. Why do I have to have seven pounds of hair and caterpillar brows and if I don’t shave my legs every morning I’m Zira from Planet of the Apes but my eyelashes?

NO! Fine and blonde, those are.


…Oh, right. Yes, I’d forgotten that. …Oh, that too? You’re still pissed about that? Geez.


I see I’ve run out of time to tell you about Steely Dan, but I think you and I both know it would go like this:

SD is an asshole. We all love him for it.

The end.

The Perfect Day

Saturday was, like, perfect. Except there was no sex. But what’re you gonna do? I’m old. Those days are over. Now I’m depressed. Fuck Saturday. So to speak.

Anyway, when I woke up, it was warm-ish out. Like, in-the-’50s warmish. Which was lovely, considering I had been living inside a snow globe for the past three days. I’d been living in a window display of Santa’s wonderland. I was like Disner on Ice.

Disner is my old married name. That was only funny if you knew that.

So I woke up, and Dear June: We’re four paragraphs in and you’re not even out of bed yet.

IMG_3848.jpgIt’s Throwback Monday here on the PieBook. It’s Moronic Life Choices Monday.

This photo is from Friday night, and DEAR JUNE NOW WE’RE GOING BACK IN TIME YOU ASSHOLE.

On Friday night, I met Ned, my ex, NedEx, for a drink because Friday was the anniversary of our first date. At that same place. On those same barstools. We’ve returned every year, except for last year when we weren’t speaking. I had a whiskey sour, same as I had on our first date, and Ned had a Glenlivet on the rocks, which he did not have on our first date but in the past six years he’s become a fancy president and probably has to do things like drink Glenlivet as part of his responsibilities.

Anyway, it was without incident. He had a cold. I don’t even think we hugged in the parking lot at the end.

You know what I don’t want any more of? Being distracted. The whole time I was with Ned, I was preoccupied with anxious thoughts. Is this guy gonna answer my initial Hello email on OK Cupid?

Is he going to ask me out?

Is he ever going to answer that last email I sent?

When am I gonna see him again?

Why isn’t he ready to be exclusive? I certainly am.

Why won’t he tell me he loves me?

Is he ever going to want to see me more than twice a week?

Is he ever going to want to move in with me?

And so on. The whole time.

Now? I mostly think, Should I get up and drive to the cupcake place? Like, that’s the most pressing thought I have. It’s so …relaxing.

By the way, I never do. The cupcake place is pretty much two minutes from my front door and the last time I went there was when my mother was in town in July. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either. But I like the idea that it’s over there. Cupcakes are just a short drive away.

IMG_3855.jpgWhen I got home from my controversial drink, this was happening. Old Batsheba, here, was up to no good.

Anyway, I GOT UP on Saturday (Oh dear God, June) and it was warmish, so the pets and I played in the yard.



IMG_3864.jpgWow. Look at all that frolicking. They play the way I did as a child. Stand there and wait till you can go back in and watch Bugs Bunny. Okay, so I didn’t capture much play. TRUST ME.

Also, I would like to heartily embrace my lawn guys for moving that chair just into a random spot in the yard like that. I’ve moved it back to its rightful place, to get snowed on in a tidy spot.

I headed out to eat lunch, because who is sick of Lean Cuisine, and when I did, I popped into this little boutique that I always walk past and never go into. It was cute, and two rooms large, and of course I was the only person in there, and

Dear People Who Own or Work at a Store:

Don’t follow the shopper. Don’t follow her and tell her all the specials you’re having. I guarantee you if the person is a bargain shopper, she’ll ask, or look at the signs. And that whole, “Oh, I just happen to be over here admiring our backless dresses at this rack” is fooling no one. Do I LOOK like a shoplifter?

Oh, god, maybe I do.

Anyway, this prompted me to shop in a million little stores Saturday, and I bought nothing, because please see last weekend’s shoe extravaganza. Still, it was fun to browse.


When did I become someone who “browses”? For reading glasses?

THE POINT IS, one of the places I wandered into is a lash place? Where they do tinting and extensions?

Dudes. I thought that was all they did. Turns out, they do Botox and micro-needling and all that bullshit I love to do to myself! And they’re as close as the cupcake place! And, AND, I asked about micro-needling, and they told me what it did, and then said, “That’s not something you really need.” So I trust them, as well.

Ima be Norm on Cheers at that place. Oh my god. Exciting.

Then I headed to the local pet supply place (okay, that was a funny blog post I just linked to. Say, June, up in yourself much?) to get Eds a new collar. His is getting mighty dingy, and who decided cloth collars were a stellar idea for dogs, who roll in red dirt and squirrel bits and so on?

IMG_3888.jpgAt the pet place, they were having kitten rescue day, and the rescue thing appeared to be put on by a fraternity. I say this because the front of the store was teeming with fraternity boys behind a table. And it was an…African American fraternity. What I’m saying to you is I walked into young hot men of color holding kittens.

“Did you DIE and go to HEAVEN?” asked my mother, when I stampeded to call her.

“Well, we know heaven is out of the question,” I said, admiring young boys like the Elizabeth Smart perv I am.

I know it wasn’t Elizabeth Smart who married her student. What the hell was that woman’s name? She married that kid, and he had a Hawaiian-sounding name like Lava Hulu PooPoo or something. The only other name I can think of is Casey Anthony, and I know that’s wrong too.

Hell. The good news is, Lava Hulu PooPoo is an excellent cat name.

When I got home from my shopping extravaganza, there was a couple looking at Peg’s house, with the man in the couple’s dad along to do dad things like look in the crawl space. Do you know what my dad would never do?

I’d heard someone had bought that house, but maybe it fell through. I don’t know. The point is, they wanted to know things about the house and neighborhood, and just as I was assuring them the ‘hood was great, we all looked up.

IMG_3880.jpgBecause this was happening.

When I’d pulled out of my driveway Saturday morning, I’d noticed how all the other roofs in my neighborhood were lovely; so perfectly snow-covered. Except mine. Mine was riddled with paw prints.

I’m surprised theirs weren’t, too. I’ve seen this cat on every roof on my side of the street thus far.

“If you move in, I hope you like cats,” I told the people.

“Well, we’ve got a Doberman,” they said, because apparently they are Shaft in 1972. “But he loves cats.”

That is exactly what Steely Dan needs: To leap onto Peg’s roof and have a Doberman smiling up at him. That’ll show him.


I was all set to stay in after that, and play with my app, have it tell me how much I look like a man, or Andy Gibb, when something on my phone popped up telling me about Ultherapy near me for 25% off.

I am not kidding. First of all, how creepy are our phones now. Secondly, you know I’ve been obsessed with saving that damn $3,000 ever since I came up with the idea to get Ultherapy. I called the number, and they had a free consultation that same day, at 5:00. So I left the house, put air in my tire (this is yet another thing I’ve learned to do while single. Change doorknobs, kill roaches, and now put air in m’tires. At this point I might as well become a welder) and screeched over there on my air-filled tires.

But you know what? Even though I’d save money at this new place? I didn’t trust them. It seemed like kind of a sales factory, whereas the other place had a nurse take me in and tell me details, and show me photos and so on, this place was all, “Come in. How you paying?”

So I demurred.

But THEN, I got home, and I got the mail. And for no reason I can think of other than they’re bored with my lack of activity, my credit card company sent me some of those goddamn checks. You know the checks I mean?

When I paid off all my cards this past summer, I gave them all to my mother, so I can’t use them. I saved only my vet credit card (Care Credit) just in case something happens, which it always does, to one of the pets.

But here was a regular card company, saying, “Use these checks for anything!”

Remember that time Jesus was up on that rock or whatever? He always seemed to be hanging out on some rock somewhere. I guess there wasn’t a lot of development yet. He was never hanging at Orange Julius Caesar or whatever.

Anyway, remember when he got tempted? That’s how I felt when I had those checks after I’d just been to the Ultherapy place. Mother of GOD, I could just use these checks!

Remember that time June compared herself to Jesus?

Anyway, if you’re asking WDJD (What Did June Do?), I ripped up said checks. Now I’m stuck with this haggard face till I save $3,000, so thanks a lot.

how old you eben BE? how yuu still alibe?

So that was my perfect Saturday. Sans sex.


On Sunday, I went to a French movie, and I was the only person in the theater, which is why I could take a picture of said movie. I know you’re stunned that the French folk were smoking. Right after, those French folk were fucking. No wonder they stay so thin. That’s all they ever do.

There are never any shower scenes.

IMG_3943.jpgAfter, I bought myself some SweetTart hearts at the Rite Aid, and ate so many that I scraped up the inside of my mouth. I feel like you never hear French women say this. These SweetTarts have [burst] no artificial flavors [burst].

IMG_3940.jpgIMG_3933.jpgAfter my daily tending to Edsel, which includes letting him stare at me 40 hours a day, I took a “How’s Your Anxiety?” quiz, which maybe he should take. To get the results, you had to give them your name and email address, which bugs the shit out of me. It’s the equivalent of a store clerk following you around.

A few hours later, I got this email…


Had totally forgotten I’d told them my name was Fuck You.

I am my own Valentine.



Whole lotta leopard


What I admire about Edsel is his unencumbered ability to release 20 seconds of stepped-on-a-duck-sounding gas with nary a flinch.

edz chillz

I have today off, and yet I am still here, in my leopard footie pajamas, talking to you. I’m supposed to be sitting around thinking about Martin Luther King. Who was something of a philanderer despite all the good he did, and I’ve been thinking about how you can admire people who were also terribly flawed. Like, you know, Woody Allen. I can’t help it; I still like his movies.

Other than those deep thoughts, I spent the weekend spending money I don’t have. I was in a sad bra situation. Steely Dan had, of course, eaten the strap of my favorite one, and my next-favorite was coming apart, so you could see the innards of that bra, which was appealing. Then I have like four uncomfortable ones that make me want to kill myself and give me a rash.

So I went to Soma and found one style I like, after getting measured by the young thing there. A lot of her job is looking at strange women’s jugs. She not only measured me, she came into the room about 46 times and said things like, “You’ve got good lift with this one.”

It was almost a dirty movie except for where we didn’t kiss or make that stupid hissing though our teeth noise that people make always during dirty movies and never in real life. Also, “dirty movies.” Okay, grandma.

IMG_3614.jpgFrom Soma, I noted that you could walk right over to the Chicos next door, without going outside, so right then I knew: Chicos and Soma are somehow related. Like how they found out that Julia Child and Marilyn Monroe are seventh cousins or whatever.

I have always said that if I get so middle-aged that I start popping into Chicos, you know my days of being cool are over for me. I’d like everyone who knew me in my 20s to abstain from pointing out that I have not for one minute been cool.

But really. Back when I used to go shopping, I’d scream into The Gap, Express and J Crew, which just now as I wrote that I realize I solidified that “not for one minute cool” thing.

Now I go into those stores of yore and I’m all, What’s with these weird shirts? Why aren’t there purple mock turtlenecks and black miniskirts like there used to be?

So I went to Chicos. Chicos, don’t be discouraged. I am pleased to say I did not purchase anything, although I did give those leopard pants up there some of my time and thought, which detracted from thinking about Martin Luther King.

Because nothing says “I’m cool” like leopard pants from Chicos. I did not get them.

Then, as if I weren’t the poster child for menopause quite enough, I zipped on into Soft Surroundings.

“I might as well just finish off the day by buying some Replens,” I texted my Aunt Mary after I put on my readers, which I also might as well hang from a chain around my neck. Aunt Mary assured me I’d crossed over into middle age the second I darkened Chicos’… lack of doorstep. It’s weird when stores let you walk in from the other store like that.

I’ve given you an Amazon link using Replens, here, and you are welcome. I will be SHOVING AMAZON UP YOUR ASS LIKE I’M YOUR PERSONAL REPLENS for awhile, cause I’m trying to raise $3,000, and don’t let me forget to tell you why.

Oh my god, anyway. So I got m’bras, and then the other reason I wanted to shop was I really need more shoes that you wear when it’s actually cold out. I have some little ankle boots I bought in 2015 that are a little shoddy at this point, and some really old, maybe circa 2010 other boots that are just cat-fur boots at this point (I am literally puss in boots), and I wanted to upgrade from my Little “Got a Match?” Girl look I had going.

I shoe-shopped for 106 years, and here are the practical, keep-your-feet-warm shoes I decided on, brought to you from my footie pajamas.

IMG_3634.jpgSome blue flats with gold trim. Tensing Norgay wore these to climb Everest, so practical are they for winter.

IMG_3635.jpgAnd some darling little great-in-snow flats with a strap. Also I have to vacuum the closet, I see.

IMG_3616.jpgI also considered these. Not only are they perfect for cold weather, I can also wear them during all my curling matches.

When I wasn’t spending money I don’t actually have,

(Mother of god, click and go to Amazon and shop, please. Also, these are Ivanka Trump pumps. You’re welcome. Again.)

I was watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Amazon. Have you watched this show? It’s magnificent. And also…


I was playing with an app called, you know, Google Arts & Culture. I tell you this because even though the image above reads, “Google Arts & Culture,” someone will say, “What the name of the app, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” and then I will kill myself before we get to the N.

You go on the app and it asks you to take a selfie, then it finds art you look like. I like how this one, above, made me way hotter, and technically that’s apparently a boy. A boy who’s hotter than me.

IMG_3621.jpgOld Nose McGowan is more like it, sadly.

IMG_3625.jpgI also thoroughly enjoyed being compared to Jo the Beautiful Irish Girl. June, the Maybe a Six on a Good Day American Girl really enjoyed that.

Oh, but this brings me to my point. Hah. A friend of mine, and I won’t name names, had something done recently called Ultherapy. It’s like these pulses of heat they do to your face and it regrows collagen or something, and while I DO NOT SEEK ADVICE about whether I should get it or not, what I have to do now is save up to get it, and it’s three fucking thousand dollars.

See how mature? June COULD just charge it, but she isn’t, as JUNE WANTS HER COLLAGEN TO GROW. June is delaying her gratification and her collagen. June is going to bug the shit outta you to shop Amazon using her link. THERE IS ALWAYS A LINK AT THE SIDE OF MY BLOG if you’re on your desktop and at the bottom if you scroll for a hundred years if you’re here on your phone.

There is a woman who works for WordPress, who wrote me when I got here and said, “I will help you with all your WordPress needs” and mother of god, does she regret that. I’ve had many WordPress needs. Anyway, she’s gone way above and beyond for me, but neither she nor I can get that Amazon link to appear beautifully under each not-blog post when you’re looking on your phone.

And also, people are forever saying, “I clicked over to Amazon from June’s blog, but I’m not sure it worked.”

If you clicked on any image that I tell you is a link to Amazon, there is a little code that lets Amazon know you came from here, no matter where you go or what you buy. It “went through,” I promise. And I know you think I can see everything you buy, but here’s what it looks like when you buy something…

Screen Shot 2018-01-15 at 10.20.58 AM.png

There used to be a spreadsheet showing what, exactly, was purchased, in about 6-point font, but damned if I know how to get to that, and also hoooo care. So all your Replens purchases today will be unknown by me.

Anyway, you can see for the last month I’ve made a big $279, and that 383 of you clicked, which THANK YOU. So if I do that well each month (and I won’t because that was Christmas) and I freelance out my ass, I can get Ultherapy by, oh, 2019.


Anyway, that’s my goal. Maybe I should set up one of those thermometers they use for fundraising.


I like this one, that’s fairly pornographic. I wonder if the thermostat sucked in air through its teeth first.

I leave you now, mostly because it’s cold AF today and even though I’m in my footie pajamas, I have a chill. Maybe if I put on some of my new sensible shoes…

In search of collagen,


World’s Worst Person Gets Her Nails Done

People at work have been talking about a new manicure procedure called SOS or S&M or whatever, and apparently it’s powder they dip your nails in to color them. Somehow this creates a manicure that keeps going for two weeks like a 17-year-old boy but allegedly isn’t as terrible for you as a gel manicure.

And that was the day June lost all her butch readers. And got arrested for pedophilia.

I remember one night, my high school boyfriend and I did it three times. THREE TIMES. I’m not talking 7 p.m., 1:00 in the morning and then at dawn. I’m talking, like, 8:00, 9:00 and then 10:00.

Hi, mom.


Anyway. Powder manicures are fun till you add the “gelous base,” and then it’s all “Where were you?” “Who was that guy I saw you talking to?”

Given that I like to spend my spare time playing basketball and helping others, I hadn’t yet experienced the excitement of powder nails, nails that have to take a powder, but seeing as that $100 I won on New Year’s Day was burning a hole in m’Kate Spade,

[Dear June: Be more basic. Love, Universe]

I decided to take myself out on the town and get one. A powder manicure. Keep up. No, I HAVEN’T taken Ritalin today. What? God.

So Friday after work, I headed out on the town, the manicure-choices town. I’d had a very deep talk with the receptionist at work about which nail place we like to go to. There are a hundred within a three-mile radius of work, and they all have “Nail” in the title.

“I don’t mind Glamor Nail, but Celebrity Nail seems kind of cliquish,” said the receptionist, who prefers a french manicure, whereas I always want something dark and mysterious, to match my exotic nature. With m’Kate Spade wallet.

The point is, she’s right. Any time I’ve ventured into Celebrity Nail, the owner is trés gregarious, and I feel like his claim to fame there is kibitzing jovially with the clientele. Whereas the place I usually frequent, and “usually frequent” is not at all annoyingly redundant.

What? God.

The place I usually frequent, Elegant Nail & Tan (Slogan: We don’t actually offer tanning) has a quiet, businesslike owner who isn’t that outgoing but gives the best massages ever during the pedicure process. I always pray I get him, but usually I get a small, rather angry woman named “Stephanie.” (Slogan: Not remotely really named Stephanie.)

The receptionist and I agreed the only reason we really ever step foot in Celebrity Nail is because it’s closest to work. It’s similar to the Chinese place I get takeout from. (Slogan: Not good, but so close by.)

And that is how I found myself walking into Celebrity Nail on Friday night, because traffic was irkedly snarlsome, and so was I, and I could not possibly have withstood traffic for the four more minutes it’d have taken me to get to Elegant Nail & Tan.

I really love that they don’t offer tanning. It’s like my favorite thing ever. IT’S IN YOUR TITLE, but tan schman. Does anyone tan anymore? I guess people spray tan. Elegant Nail & (Spray) Tan. There you go.

SO THERE I WAS–God, June–at Celebrity Nail, and as usual, the owner was loudly joking with a few customers. I mean, that’s nice and all, but if you’re not a regular there, you can feel a tad left out. I’d never really put a name to that feeling till the receptionist mentioned it. That happens to me a lot, actually.

“Any time I talk to her, I end up feeling bad about myself,” someone once said to me about a mutual acquaintance, and OH MY GOD was that true, and I’d just gone around feeling vaguely bad with that acquaintance and not really acknowledging it.

“This kung pao chicken takes like root beer,” my college roommate’s boyfriend once said to me, as we were eating at this place I went to at least once a week. GODDAMMIT. I hadn’t acknowledged it till he labeled it.

So there I was Friday, finally noticing that this place made me feel kind of bad, and also kind of annoyed. I come to the manicure place to read celebrity gossip, and choose nail colors like I’m making Sophie’s Choice, and to generally sit quietly, which for me is pretty much always my goal.

I go to work hoping to always sit quietly and concentrate. I get my hair done hoping I can sit quietly and have my tresses colored. I want restaurants to be quiet. Maybe I should just isolate more.

The point is, as the evening wore on and I…sat quietly with the manicurist I was given, who had a terrible cold and was spending an hour basically holding my hands, so that was relaxing. As we were over there being quiet, I began to notice one insider over at the popular table was being more…attention-grabbing than the others.

I tried to sort of turn in my chair and see her, but I couldn’t even determine her race. All I saw was a rather thick woman, with dark hair, who based on the tenor of her voice was probably middle-aged. As opposed to how young and svelte I am. BUT AT LEAST I WAS SITTING QUIETLY.

The first thing I couldn’t help but overhear, because she was practically screaming into my soul, was that Red Bull, the energy drink? She alleged it was made from bull sperm. She’d been reading something from the internet, that reliable source, says June, typing at you from the internet.

“WELL. IT’S NOT THE FIRST SPERM I’VE DRANK,” she announced grammatically. Everything was an announcement with this one. I expected, when I turned to look at her, that she would be just a mike and a brick wall behind her. Tip your wait staff.

She started talking about a guy at work who was “Chinese,” and the owner of the salon pressed her for more info. Was he actually Chinese, or was she using that term universally? “What’s his last name?” asked the owner.

“I DON’T KNOW. CHIN?” she asked. And that is about the time my annoyance turned to searing white hate.

“What do you feed your kids?” she eventually asked the owner, who had been joking with her the whole time. “Rice and soy sauce? HA HA HA HA.”

Cold Hands the Mucus-y Manicurist and I exchanged glances.

“You know, everyone at work loves my Asian accent,” she said, and that is when my blood turned to ice. No. No, she’s not gonna…

She did. In a NAIL SALON, with 600 Asian people working there, this stupid white BITCH ASS (I’m assuming she was white. Again, I never saw her. Though in my mind I’d punched her 12 times in her phantom face already) did an ASIAN ACCENT.

She did.

At the nail salon.

My nails turned out just okay. There are some spots that didn’t take the clear coating, and I’m not sure if this is how S&M nails always turn out, or if my poor manicurist was sick and perhaps distracted by the BITCH-ASS RACIST in the nail place.

I do have to say that eventually the outgoing owner said to her, “That’s so racist.”

“No it isn’t,” she said. Because that gets to be up to her, and not the ASIAN PERSON she just mocked.

Maybe they should have two sections at salons: Women who want to talk endlessly and loudly, and a quiet section. A nice-people section and a racist section. A nail section and a tanning section.

Maybe people should just shut the fuck up.


Let’s look at June

Given that it’s Sunday and I’ve already finished preaching my sermon and all, I thought this might be a perfect time to round up all the stupid lipstick pictures I’ve taken, so we can see them all in one setting. Sitting. Whatever.

As you know, and have discussed with your families ad nauseam, I purchased a huge collection of Clinique Chubby Sticks last month, a purchase that was unnecessary and yet has provided all of us with hours of enjoyment.

“Mom, do we HAVE to all gather around and look at June’s daily lipstick picture?”

“Yes, Jeshosephat. It’s a crucial part of your book-learnin’.”

I took a photo of me with every color, I think, and here they all are. I think.

Richer Raisin. Now with roots!
Fuller Fig. Frosted follicles.
Whole Lotta Honey. I’d rather be getting a whole lotta hiney.
Graped Up. Where even am I in this shot? On a dollar bill?
Curviest Carmel. This color stuck in my teeth. HAHAHAHAHAHA.
Mega Melon. And melanoma, given my sun-damaged chestal region, there.
Broadest Berry. I look like a broad in this one. Don’t fuck with me, fella.
Roomiest Rose. Oh, June. Stop.
Chunky Cherry and the Capillaries. My new band.
I just realized that I hadn’t ever put on Mightiest Maraschino, so my nose and I put it on now, having not showered. I liked the part where I smudged it. And the pillow case on the floor. I’m doing laundry. Sue me.
Mighty Mimosa. No relation to the Mouse of the same first name.
Pursed lips with Plumed Up Poppy. 
Whoppin’ Watermelon was wimpy.
Plumped-Up Pink while feelin’ peckish. You can tell, or at least I can, when that cold set in.
Pudgy Peony with m’pup.
Plushest Punch. Pell, no.
Super Strawberry. I’ll have the soup.
Roundest Raspberry, readers.
Grand finale: Grandest Grape.

So there it is, and probably later today you’ll say, man. I wish I could look at more pictures of June’s fucking face.

You need only turn back here.

Anyway, which do you prefer? Most of them are barely really a color. I think perhaps I prefer Pudgy Peony. Possibly.



June loses the moon

There’s something very smug-inducing about leaving your workout and the moon is still out. Like, you’re done and the sun hasn’t come up yet. Very Army.

I did Pure Barre at 6 a.m. today, obvs. And I say obvs because look at this ass. How can you miss it. …Okay, maybe the results of Pure Barre haven’t quite set in yet.

Not a portrait of my actual ass

Yesterday was a good mail day. Faithful Reader Fay sent me Fiona the Hippo. I see that when they blew stuff around my camellias that it soiled the window, and now my ridiculous handyman Alf has a new thing to do. Today he is coming to fix the rod in my closet, which sounds like a euphemism but I swear it is not. I’d have to kill Alf before I let him “fix” the rod in my “closet.” Actually when you break it down that way it doesn’t even make sense as a euphemism.

Alf is someone I am sincerely fond of, who does everything he can to annoy me. Right there is the conundrum. Really, I am telling you this here so when I finally kill him, I’ll have evidence that I was driven to it. That’s how getting out of murder works, right?

I never watch those murder shows. Maybe I need to bone up. Which is also something Alf isn’t going to do around here.

IMG_3508.jpgAnyway, also, my father sent me a paper towel holder. He is a very kitchen-y person, and I guess knowing my paper towels were rolling around unchaperoned on my counter is very Third World to him. So now I have the World’s Fanciest Paper Towel Holder®. With a five-year warranty!

After the excitement of the mail day wore off, my Aunt Kathy sent me an email. “I don’t know how to send a link,” she wrote, “but if you Google [insert thing she said here], you can find an interview I did!”

This was all a Very Aunt Kathy email. The internet is her bailiwick. She might start working at the Apple store.

Here. Here is the elusive link. This was maybe four years ago, that this interview took place, and Dear Aunt Kathy: You look way hotter now. She’s lost weight, for one, and her hair is better.

Anyway, if you know my aunt, you know that the part where she tears up during the interview is rare and elusive. It’s the unicorn of Aunt Kathy emotions.

Aunt Kathy and I have always been more similar than my relatively steady mother and I. Not that I cry a lot; I don’t. But one might say my every emotion is rather…close to the surface.

Have I ever told you the scary mammogram story? I mean, I know I have. I regale you with that motherfucker every mammogram season. But what I mean is, after the stupid general practitioner said, “Prepare for the worst,” I did what any adult woman would do: I called my mother. I told her the story thus far.

My mother paused. She breathed deeply and serenly. “Well, we don’t really know anything yet,” she said, with all the animation of Liberace at a titty bar.

After we had our even-keeled conversation, I called my Aunt Kathy. Told her the story. Here was her response:


So. Aunt Kathy and me. Same.

Why was I on this tangent? I forget.

IMG_3496.jpgHere’s today’s Chubby Stick lip color, in a shade called FOR FUCK’S SAKE I CAN’T FIND IT. I put it on yesterday at lunchtime, and although it looks as though I’m posing for my senior picture, really the guy across the street had called an ambulance again. He’s 109, and calls an ambulance all the time.

IMG_3498.jpgThis doesn’t stop me from Gladys Kravitzing every time he does it.


My point is, just now I looked in the tray, and that one color is missing GODDAMMIT. So I looked in my purse, that endless endless bowel that is my purse, with its 86 zipper compartments and 29 pockets, and I don’t see it. I also looked around that chair I was splayed on, but no.

I just went online, Googled the names of the damn colors, and I think that was Roundest Raspberry.

Oh, hell. I think we’ve done all of them, actually. Because the next one is Grandest Grape, and we already did that, didn’t we? This is why you shouldn’t let me be in charge of things.

I’ll figure it out tonight and present you with a grand finale of all 21 stupid colors, none of which were all that colorful, if you ask me.


While I’ve been talking to you and tryina figure out lip colors like it’s interesting, I’ve been eating my protein bar, in the hopes that I won’t get to work and want a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit after allegedly burning 394959394 calories at 6 a.m. because I’m in the Army.

Do you capitalize “Army”?

I guess that’s all my big news for now. Oh, I just noticed the date and remembered today is my six-year anniversary of having Lily. I’d already snagged Iris, maybe a week before I got Lily. Before that I’d been out of cats. And now there’s a cacophony of them!

IMG_3513.jpgI just got up to take a photo of the cacophony of cats, and this was the best I could do. Hey, why are my wood floors dull? I mean other than the fact that 32 paws traverse them daily. How do you make ’em shiny again?

I guess I have to Bona them. Which is not a euphemism and here we are back at the beginning.

Talk to you tomorrow, but before I go, what smell makes you the most nostalgic? I was thinking about this last night. I was tryina sleep early cause I knew I had to get up at 5:30, but there was this…BRIGHT LIGHT shining into my window, and I was all, What the hell is that? Ima give the gaybors a piece of my mind if they…

…it was the moon. The moon! Then I didn’t mind the light so much. But anyway that’s what I thought of as I lay there wishing I’d fall the hell asleep already. Why are we always awake when we don’t want to be and sleepy when we can’t be? Why?

So. Smells.

For me, definitely Vick’s Vapo-Rub. And probably really cold winter smells that I can’t remember anymore because I’m never back in Michigan in winter unless someone falls over dead.

I was home in early September once, but just once, and in the early morning it was already frosty, and just the feel of that was very nostalgic to me. The smell of the leaves and the frost and how it was still KIND of summer, but also headed quickly to fall.

You know how if your hair is one way, let’s just say curly, to throw a scenario out there and how’d I think of that. So, your hair is one way, but you do something to it to make it the other way, like straight, but your hair WANTS to be the other way, so as soon as it can, it starts to curl the fuck back up.

That’s how Michigan feels. Sure, it’ll give you two and a half months of “summer,” but it really wants to go back to being cold.

While I’ve been talking to you, the moon went away. I guess I’d better get to work.



Because Prosecco

IMG_E3062.JPGHey, June, why so destined for hell?

So Christmastime is here, as the Peanuts would say high-pitchedly, and here’s what I’ve done thus far…

Yesterday, I got this urge to clean the house. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m pregnant and nesting or something miraculous like that. Maybe I’m about to give birth in a manger. The point is, I laundered and dusted and cleaned all fekking afternoon, and there I was, mopping myself into a corner, as I do, when the doorbell rang.

“WOO WOO WOO WOOOO WOOF!” said Edsel, who really has a limited vocabulary.

I literally had no way to get to the door without screwing up the mopping. “Who is it?” I shouted, the way Laverne and Shirley used to while they held their baseball bats.

“It’s Happy,” said Happy, who is a faithful reader and who somehow knows where I live, I forget how. I wish now that’d I’d thought to eat her, as then I could tell you she was my Happy Meal.

“Hang on!” I said, then mince mince minced over the chair and the still-drying floors to the door, which to tell you the truth now that they’re dry don’t really look any different. My wood floors don’t really shine anymore, and hey, Stepford Wife. Nice concerns.

IMG_3074.JPGThe point is, Happy feeds and takes in feral cats, and this one is living in her laundry room at the moment, and she wondered if Ned would want this cat, who looks like NedKitty if NedKitty had dipped her tail in ink.

I SO THINK HE SHOULD. And certainly this personal decision should be mine and not his. Anyway I texted the photo and he hasn’t said either way, which will stun everyone who knows Ned and his lightning-fast decisions.

IMG_E3076.JPGHappy also gave me this jaguar of color, because it reminded her of Steely Dan, and lemme tell you what. Every time I see that thing out the corner of my eye, I think it’s Steely Dan.

IMG_3136.jpgAnd the reason I keep seeing it out the corner of my eye is Dear Happy: I am sorry to tell you that Edsel is obsessed with Jaguar of Color. Obsessed. Like, he slept with it last night. Obsessed. I think you got Edsel a gift, after all.

IMG_3071.jpgAnyway, as the day drew to a close, I left Dickus Americanus, up there, during the .0007 seconds she sleeps a day, and stampeded over to my coworker Austin’s house, as he invited me to a little gathering at his house. Yes, I realize I just told you my coworkers don’t like me, but he resides in the minority. He’s like someone who voted for McGovern or something.

IMG_3083.jpgNot wanting to break our record, I put on my next Chubby Stick color beforehand, in  Mighty Mimosa, which is dumb because mimosas are orange, but I do have to say I enjoy me a mimosa, because getting drunk at breakfast is the way to go.

IMG_3085.jpgI also wore my ridik coursage that Ned’s stepmother gave me years ago, a corsage I adore but that I can’t pin on right, so as soon as I got to Austin’s it fell off and I stuck everyone with m’wayward pins like they were all my voodoo dolls.

IMG_E3088.JPGI like Austin’s friends. This is the guy who also likes old pictures of people he doesn’t know. His wife and I got into a very deep discussion about Highlights Magazine, and she expressed her disdain for The Timbertoes (“I don’t know what they are, and I don’t know what their message is”) and right then I knew, I loved her with all my heart.


Because she’s right. Why are they wooden? Why are they 1800s-looking? WHO THE FUCK ARE THE TIMBERTOES AND WHAT DO THEY WANT WITH US?

“You only ever find Highlights Magazine at the doctor’s,” she pointed out. “And that one Bible Book, which I read once as a kid, not realizing the stories would all have morals,” she said. Then she went on to imitate for me the drawings inside that book, doing a fine imitation of everyone at the crucial moment when they readjust their moral compass, which apparently happens in every story.


“Oh my god, that book is ALWAYS THERE at the doctor’s and I never once picked it up,” I said to her. “It’s like those strawberry candies, where the wrapper looks like a strawberry? I sort of know its there, but I also barely even acknowledge it exists.”

There was another woman at the party who, when I asked how she knew Austin and his wife, told me how she was new to town and desperate to make friends, so after a few perfunctory meetings with Austin’s wife, she one day chased after Austin’s wife’s car with a post card, which she eagerly slammed onto the window.

“It had every possible detail,” Austin’s wife told me. “Her shoe size, her kids’ ages, everything.”

At the end of the night, when I was leaving, that same woman came up to me. “I wanted to slam a post card at you but I don’t have any,” she said, and we exchanged numbers and kissed.

Austin’s party gets hot. The real housewives of Greensboro.

IMG_3096.jpgSpeaking of hot, Austin had a fire on his TV, despite actually having a, you know, fireplace. “This is better than a real fire,” said Austin. “It got 5 stars on Netflix.”

This lead us all to want to see a 1-star fire, which we figured would be one guy trying over and over to light wet wood, and eventually just tossing in and burning a Solo cup.

IMG_3102.jpgAustin’s dog continues to be perhaps unhealthily obsessed with Austin, although she did, oddly, give me the time of day, which is rare.

fuk yuu, laydeee. you fekkin timber tow.

IMG_E3109.jpgI also took time out of my busy schedule to admire Austin’s kitchen wallpaper, as I always do, and I see the Prosecco had set in at this point, because nice focusing. Austin and I spent about 45 minutes discussing the use of typography on said wallpaper, and would we, as a designer and a copy editor, have been okay with those equals signs, and the cursive/all caps fiasco, and the fact that there is clearly an extra space before “drops,” till finally I announced, “We are the two most boring people in the world.”

You really are, June.

This is another friend of Austin’s, who I threatened to put in my blog last night, but I forget why. Because Prosecco. He’s the husband of Post Card Wife.

Anyway, I see I have droned on about Xmas Eve for too long, kind of like my stay at the Prosecco table last night, and I don’t have time to describe Christmas and this has instead become all about Eve, and I would take credit for that joke but really The Poet made that one up, and damn her and her writing awards.

Hey, June, is ensuring good sentence structure part of your job? Because, job. Well done.

IMG_3185I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I will describe my not-at-all-chaotic Christmas with a Kitten, volume 3949294. ‘Tis not my first Xmas with a kitten. Probably won’t be my last. That doesn’t mean it’s never a pain in the Prosecco, though.

Yule see me later.