I did something bad, and I feel bad about it. Say “bad” one more time. Who am I, Michael Jackson?

In 2011, I briefly dated a guy. Let me think: We met in late May, first date in June, and by July it was all over. We gave it about a month of no contact, and then commenced being friends after that. He, too, was newly separated, in that first year North Carolina makes you sit through till you can get a divorce. We’d go to dinner, to movies, get drinks, shop. He was fun to shop with. We got each other Christmas presents and celebrated each other’s birthdays.

That guy was someone I called Dick Whitman. (He was a huge fan of Mad Men, as was I.)

Anyway, we got pretty close. Then life moved on and I met someone I got serious with, and he did, too, but occasionally we’d still hang, usually with the people we were dating.

In 2015, I ended my serious relationship, AS WE ALL KNOW ALL TOO WELL, and I didn’t hear from Dick Whitman. I wasn’t particularly miffed about that: I hadn’t personally told him, I don’t think, and I assumed he’d figure it out soon enough via social media or something. Eventually, his mom told him.

Because here’s the thing: His mom was fabulous. Also, use of colons with an introductory clause is big with me today.

Dick Whitman talked about his mom all the time, and when we’d been dating, he showed me old pictures of her (he knew I was into that, plus also he’s a photographer, so he had what you might call a few photos here and there), and he and I even made a little video for her, so he could “introduce” me.

Air quotes.

Anyway, I finally met her two years after I met Dick Whitman. She was marvelous. We shared a birthday, and a tendency to be outspoken and perhaps unfiltered. I met her two times total, both at Winston-Salem restaurants, as that’s where they both live. And I adored her.

Dick Whitman’s mom became a reader of my blog, and she’d comment here, and on (Face)Book of June. And it was probably one of those places that she learned my relationship was over, and she told her son.

He left me a message then. I was staying at Kaye’s, so it must have been those first six weeks after the breakup. I called him back, but he never returned the call.

During those first six weeks, I also arranged an “I’m Going to Die Alone” party, to be held in December at my house after I’d moved in. I sent out invitations early, probably two months before the party was to commence. Dick Whitman did not reply, but his girlfriend did, saying they’d be there.

But then weeks before the party, she wrote again, saying they’d double-booked and could not come. I never did speak to Dick Whitman, and that is when I got angry at him, for not being there when I really needed a friend.

Look, it was a total chick thing to do, okay? I know that. I was vulnerable. We still have not spoken, except I emailed him last week to say I was sorry that his mother died.

Because she did die. Dick Whitman’s mom’s health declined, and in August I emailed DW’s sister to ask if I could visit. I knew Dick Whitman’s mom was in the hospital, and I wanted to see her. She said yes, please do, she reads your blog, still.

But driving the 40 minutes each way after work wasn’t really feasible, because of my freelance stuff I do at night, and each weekend would just slip by without me getting to Winston. Every weekend I’d say, “I gotta get to Winston” and then I never did.

And then she died.

And now I see Dick Whitman’s sister has unfriended me on Facebook, and I feel terrible. I try to always be the person who comes to the funeral, or who shows up when someone is ill, and I was not that person this time. I know DW’s mom was surrounded by people who loved her, and that she probably didn’t even notice that I wasn’t there, but I wish I’d have been there anyway, as clearly it meant something to DW’s sister that I show up.

So, I was that asshole. And I feel terrible about it, and you don’t have to make me feel better, because I did a bad thing, and it’s okay to feel terrible when you did a bad thing.

Michael Jackson-ly,



The one where June’s family assumes she’s missing, has fit

I woke up Thursday with a migraine, which is annoying. When you wake up with one, there's really nothing you can do. It's often too late to take medicine. But took some I did, and fortunately it worked, so I only had to work with a migraine for, you know, three hours or something comfy like that.

Then on Friday I woke up with a migraine.


And because I'd had one the day before, that crept back in at night, I'd taken two pills Thursday, which means on Friday I had half a pill left.

Here's the thing about my goddamn medication. You get nine to a pack. That's all they'll sell you. And you could go around with two-and-a-half pills for three weeks before you need more. And they won't do refills till 30 days have passed.

So what ALWAYS HAPPENS is I have a bad day, get down to one or one-and-a-half pills, panic and call the pharmacy and



get told I don't have any refills. I swear to you it seems that way. I get migraines constantly, every month, since I'm 25. JUST GIVE ME THE GODDAMN REFILL.

So then I call the doctor, and I have to sit through that


voice mail, where they



tell you to pay attention cause their prompts have changed, and why the fuck do they always do that? Why? They HAVE NEVER CHANGED IN NINE YEARS OF THAT PLACE.

So you finally get the assistant to your doctor, but you never REALLY get her, no. You get a machine, of course, telling you that if this is a real emergency to hang up and dial SUCK MY DICK YOU CONDESCENDING 20-YEAR-OLD NINNY.

THEN, they ask you to be sure to tell them your name, the patient's name, their date of birth, a phone number "where you can be reached"

Oh, really? Because you don't want to FUCK AROUND with voice mail? Really? I wonder what that feels like.

The point is, they go on and on after and you can never remember, by the time it beeps, what all you're supposed to tell them. Also, ALSO, every doctor at that place has at least one day a week that they're gone by noon. At this point I work with THREE doctors there, so often have I called needed a refill and the doctor is out till the next



ALSO, if this weren't enough, they tell you, Prescription refills will be filled within 48 hours.

Why don't you suck my enormous fire hose of a dick.


So, you see how I maybe got a tad hot under the collar just now? You can imagine my sparkling mood Friday morning when faced with all the above AGAIN, for the NINE HUNDREDTH TIME, and basically the message I left for the "assistant" aka never-ending voice mail contained even more F words than I've already uttered. I was SO ANGRY.

In case my mood wasn't clear. Oh, and also? I'd tried the pharmacy three times to see if they could help, and it just rang and rang, and finally I called customer service. "The pharmacy isn't open yet, ma'am." What is this, 1980? You can't have a MESSAGE saying that? I get machines when I don't want them, and I don't get them when I need them.

Seriously. When you're sick, the last thing you should have to put up with is all that bullshit.

So I left the F-y message with the doctor on my drive to work, then called my stepfather and had HIM call in my goddamn prescription, as he is a doctor and plays one on my blog.

Several hours later, I was working, when my phone rang. It was my doctor's office. By that time I was so mortified about how sweary I'd been that I did not pick up. Now I gotta get a new doctor.

I mean, really. It's bullshit, that place.

I can't remember now what I did on Friday night–oh! I got my fortune told.


I went to the place I always go, and Ima keep her predictions a secret this time, and let you know later if she was right. "Can June really afford to see a psychic?" everyone's asking, lips pursed. NO, okay? I LEARNED IT FROM YOU, DAD. I learned it from you.

Name that commercial.

On Saturday, I woke up with a migraine.


Because I'd been so busy psychic-ing on Friday, I'd failed to get my prescription filled, after all that. So go to the pharmacy I did, on Saturday, where next door at PetSmart they were having dog and cat adoption days, and why do you guys let me go to things like that? It'd be like letting the men's Olympic skating team peruse PenisSmart.

There was a large, black, Lab/Newfie-looking mix of a 7-year-old dog there whose people had to go to assisted living, and she was sweet and calm, and see above ref to PenisSmart. Goddammit. I can't seem to forget her. Her WindSong stays on my mind.

Anyway. I also attended a movie with Wedding Alex; we saw Get Out. Have you seen Get Out? There go my chances for ever banging a man of color. Every man of color in America is gonna look at us white girls askance now. Especially me. "Oh, come on home to my liberal therapist family!"

On Sunday I woke up with a migraine.

Mother of god.

I mean, this was a horrendous migraine. Of the don't-throw-up migraines. I literally got out of bed twice Sunday: in the morning to let Edsel out and to feed everyone, and in the evening to let Edsel out and to feed everyone. I ate nothing (of COURSE I weighed myself today. What are you, new?) except for some fizzy water I used to swallow the


I took to feel better, none of which worked. Edsel crept gingerly to my bed and licked my temple where it hurts, meaning most likely I have a tumor. Which, GOOD. Then they can fix it or I can at least die.

Finally, at, like, 10 p.m., I looked at my phone for the first time that day.

I had 939485839393 messages.

Oh what the fuck, I wondered, barely able to function.

Seems I'd left a sad image on Instagram Friday, which I did, but mostly cause I thought it was beautiful writing and I wish I could write anything poignant other than "fuck" all the time.


I also wish I had a tidy little name like Lang Leav. How easy it'd be to sign for things.

Well, anyway, my father saw it, and apparently texted me at some point Sunday, and when I didn't answer, he called, then he called again, and THEN HE CALLED MY MOTHER to say that I was "missing" and then he called my aunt, and then my mother called Ned

to whom I'm not even speaking

and then everyone called me, EXCEPT FOR NED, who apparently does not care that I'm in a shallow grave somewhere.

So, picture it. You've been wishing to die all day, with the pain and the nausea and the sleeping and the more nausea and pain, and then you look at your phone and you have

EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE to call or text back with "migraine."

Then everyone calls and texts back. "Oh, good! I was worried you were dead! And also, while I've got you on the phone, blllooopeldy bloop bloo! heeeee! And bloodeldy bloop! What do you think of that, June? …June? Are you there, June?"

Oh my god.

Plus also, I had to call Ned, to whom I'm not speaking in case I hadn't mentioned that, and he was all, "I talked to your mother, and we discussed movies, and then I went down and locked my doors in case you were coming over here to kill me."

It wasn't till much later that I got


that Ned just…LOCKED HIS DOORS and didn't COMB THE STREETS looking for me. JESUS! Locked his doors. Oh my god, irritated.

So that, folks, is how I managed to have drama in my life even when I was lying there dying and minding my own business.

hoo care. we lock door; we heer you missing.

June. Silently bearing her cold since…oh, shut up.

I still have a cold.

Oh my GOD, I feel miserable. I'm all cloudy and achy, and I absolutely have to go to work today; there's a big meeting with big bigwigs from bigwig-ness at work, of which I am the subject. Well, not me. But my newsletter. I'm sure you know I am the editor of my company newsletter, not that I like to brag. Anyway, it's going digital and today is the day the development team shows it off. And since it's MY newsletter, I can hardly not show.

But, oh, how I wish to be shivering in bed all day. But you know how stoic I am. I'll muddle through. I'll carry on. And no one sitting around me will be privy to my suffering at all.

In the meantime, I've showered nonce and have Halle-Barry-at-the-Oscars hair.

WHAT WAS WITH THE HAIR? It was like it was Sunday afternoon and she was watching HGTV in her pajamas and said, "Oh, HELL, I have the Oscars. I clean forgot." Then pulled on a dress and forgot her hair.


Other than that, Halle Barry is doing a good job of still looking good, which is more than I can say for myself right now.

Oh! Also, 348 of you took my Survey Monkey thing, and it turns out when you opt for the free version of Survey Monkey, those motherfuckers only show you the first 100 responses.

Screen Shot 2017-02-28 at 7.27.24 AM

As you can sort of see (does it look blurry to you or is that my fever talking?), most of you selected "home improvement" for what I should do with my big $524. I have texted Alf, my handyman, and I am not kidding, his name is Alf. When he's done eating cats he said he'd give me an estimate.

I really wish I could see all 348 responses, because I'd love to justify blowing it on cosmetics. Since Kayeeee laid down the law, I have finished not one but TWO things of foundation in my drawer, used up god knows how many tubes of mascara that'd been lingering in there, and my lipstick choices are abominable at the moment. Let's review…


This is a color called Cafe Au Lait, and I don't mind the color, but it's coffee-flavored, and who wants to taste like coffee?


This is Azalea. I look insane when I have it on. Seriously. One swipe and I'm certifiable. I blend it with other, less awful, colors.


Apparently, "Dusty Rose" is a euphemism for "burnt orange that makes you look like 1979 grandma."

That's it! Those are the dregs. In my purse I have a tinted Burt's Bees I wear constantly and a brown, yes, brown, I had no business buying that was applied once and I still have PTSD over it.

Anyway. I can't wait to plow through those so I can get more, along with foundation, and also all my eye shadow is sad.


Dang. That's a lot of eye shadow. I'm never gonna qualify for new stuff.


But back to my illness. Because I'd hate for you to forget. Is there ever NOT something hanging on the dining room chair? Anyway. Steely Dickus took full advantage of having a feverish lap to lounge on. He was there all day; at one point, Lily was on me, and he just sat on her face, like she wasn't even existing. He doesn't care. And she LET him! Lily was all, "Well. Guess Lilee live in fur wurld now."

IMG_5655 IMG_5658
Also, Edsel tolerated a tail flapping on his head. Why does everyone here let this interloper order them around? I guess they needed a new leader since Tallulah. Yesterday was the 9th anniversary of the day I found Tallulah. That was a good time to think about.

I'd better cloudily get in the shower and foggily get dressed so I can be chipper at that important meeting today. I'll bear it silently for the rest of the day, as I do. No one will be the wiser. I hate to burden others with my illness.

…I just tried to find a still image of Scarlet O'Hara in bed after her miscarriage, looking dramatic, but I couldn't find one. What I DID find was this, and now I'm irritated.


That pasty, namby-pamby…

You know what she'd do? She'd bear her cold silently, work hard at her desk, till she fell over from it. "I'm all right," she'd whisper, as the color drained from her…oh. Right. Well, still. She's say she was all right. You'd never be able to tell. Say, Melanie looks alabaster and lifeless. Wonder what's for lunch?

Here I am, off to work. Don't worry about me.





Ned sighting

I saw Ned.

Fifty-five days I've been alternately avoiding running into him or, on difficult days, hoping I do. Fifty-five days I've been obsessing, and being angry, and then missing him, then feeling determined and OH HELL THIS IS RIDICULOUS.

I was driving to work yesterday, and there's one point, right near work, where you have to get in this left-turn lane and it takes for fucking ever to turn. You could live whole lifetimes waiting to turn. I was about 12 cars back from the front, so I looked at my phone.

There was an email from Ned, addressed to both my personal mail and work.


"You must have me blocked on your phone. [I did.] It's about NedKitty." Of course he didn't SAY "NedKitty," as that is not her name. But we had a deal, made long ago, that if anything ever happened with that cat, that I'd go with him for the, you know. The meeting of the maker.

"Oh, god," I said, feeling weepy about NedKitty. Girlfriend is 17. Last I'd seen her, she was getting mighty bony and not running around much. She was mostly kind of in a ball in a corner. Somebody puts NedKitty in a corner, and that somebody is the march of time. Naturally Ned had taken her to the vet, because see: Helicopter Dad/Ned's photo. Her kidneys were not doing well, last I'd heard.

So I called him. He was a wreck. "I'm taking her to the vet right now. She's not good," he said.

"Do you want me to come there?" I asked, mentally reviewing how I looked. Skirt, little sweater, boots, full makeup. Hair, not that bad. Maybe a B+.

Fat? Yes, still.

"Yes," he said.

So I did a U-turn, an illegal one, at the stupid left turn, called work to tell them and got to the vet.


There was his car, the car I'd been worried sick about seeing for the last 55 days. I rushed in and they showed me to the room. There was Ned. And poor, oh, poor NedKitty.

She weighs 5 pounds now. She was all bones and she was in her ball, her new position of choice. "Why's her head wet?" I asked him.

"She took a shower with me." We both laughed. NedKitty loves to stand on the bathtub and stick her head under the shower. It's her thing. I was glad she was still being herself a bit.

Ned told me about all NK's symptoms, and finally the vet came in, looking grim. She wanted to run some tests on NedKitty to see "where we are" in this poor cat's decline. She took NedKitty, who went with zero fuss, and that in itself was worrying. She has a Mr. Yuck sticker on her file, with a big warning about how you need hawk gloves and a strong disposition to deal with her. And there she was, gentle as a lamb.

Ned was a mess. It was alternately bizarre and totally normal to be in there with him. Mostly I just felt like I was gonna hurl. The whole thing was upsetting.

He told me some good and some very bad things that have been going on in his life. Naturally I took time out to tell him about my dust mite allergy. Boy, did he feel stupid about his dying cat then. I also told him that Edsel was depressed without him. "Oh, no!" said Ned. "You want me to visit him?"

Oh, god. Do I? I hear all 10 of you screaming, "NOOOOOO!"

We kept it light, as light as you can keep a situation like this. I mean, he's apologized to me 700 times about that fight, sent me roses at work. And I continue to say, You can't apologize for that and have it be okay. So there was no need to rehash all that.

I told him how I watch the beer aisle at the store, and he said he has very specific times he'll go there, and he certainly never goes when he's coming from a direction that requires passing my house. "I didn't want to see your car not there and wonder where you were, or see some man's car in the driveway."

This led me to wonder how he'd determine it was a man's car. Would it be, like, a tank or something? Maybe a pickup. A pickup would have to be a man. Or a really big woman. I guess some sort of vintage sports car would definitely be a man. But let's say a Honda was in my drive. That could be anyone. Well. Not Hulk. But anyone else.

Apparently one of his friends told him I'd been on a date, so I guess in his mind I've been whooping it up all over town. Getting more chins than a Chinese phone book. I realize that's not a euphemism for having a lot of sex but I can't think of one. All I can think of is a vaguely racist joke about chins.

Also, who's sort of a little delighted that she got one of his friends to read her blog? June's blog for the WIN.

The point is, the vet came back and said IF Ned wanted to hook this cat up to an IV three times a week and IF he wanted to shoot this syringe of stuff into her mouth twice a day and IF he would give her this special food, they could keep going.

"You mean I get to take her home with me? Okay," said Ned, weeping.

Here was the inside of my head: !!!!!????!!!

But look, it's his cat and his decision. So he put her bony old self back in the carrier and off he went with $848586775 worth of medication.

So. You can judge me all you want for going. I went because I said I would, and because I know how it feels to lose a beloved pet, and because of course I could not resist seeing Ned. So how you have all the reasons. I told one friend and got The Judgement immediately, so I expect nothing less from the rest of you.

But remember. When your friend confides in you and you loft from your perch with your happy life, and offer no words of empathy or comfort or understanding, there's pretty much a 100% chance that friend won't confide in you again.


Here was me at the end of yesterday, sort of depleted. I kind of wanted to be in a ball in a corner like NedKitty. So.



Save June

Yesterday was a queer day. Did you ever see The Color Purple, when Celie says that about the weather? "It was a queer day." I always liked that line. When I was a kid, the word "queer" was all over the book Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and so one afternoon I told my babysitter she looked queer and she got furious at me. Furious! I had no idea what was so wrong.

She was this big, solid woman who took me fishing a lot, married to this mere slip of a man, and in retrospect I wonder if they had some sort of it's-the-early-'70s arrangement, and now I feel bad. I had no idea the word meant anything but out of the ordinary. I was trying to expand my vocabulary.

Anyway. I got up early yesterday so I could rush off to the doctor to get my allergy test. As I pulled up, there was this college girl in sweats and a messy ponytail, going in with her dad, and I was so over her beleaguered "Oh my gawd, it's EIGHT" attitude. Once I was at the airport and there was a college girl in the same beleaguered getup AT TEN. Give me a break. It was the Greensboro airport, so it's not like she was on a layover having flown in from London or anything.

Okay, see. I can tell already today I will be hard pressed to stick to the subject at hand.

The point is, they stuck my back with allergens, and I had to lie there for 15 minutes, waiting. "You want your phone or a magazine to look at?" the red-haired chippie asked me after she'd poked me all over yonder.

"No, I'm good," I smugged. "I can be alone with my thoughts."

So then she left and here were my thoughts for the next 15 minutes: Ned, money, Ned, what'm I gonna do about money, Ned, Edsel, Ned, wondering what you all were saying about cereal, Ned, wondering why I can't stop with the Ned bullshit and when'm I gonna get over it already, Ned [Hey, good thoughts, JUNE.] and then it was time for the doctor to come look at my back.

Turns out, I have an allergy to dust mites.

I know. Try to relax. It'll be okay.

"That's it? That's all I'm allergic to?"


"Did you test me for grapefruit?"

Nope. But they could do a blood test for that if I wanted. I demurred. At this point I'm over grapefruit. If only Ned could be grapefruit.

As soon as I got to work, I told every coworker about my severe allergies, and if you ever wanted to meet a group of people who are 100% over me, you should come see my coworkers.

Over-Me Coworker #48859

"You know how people are always saying 'I don't want your pity'? I want nothing but your pity," I told everyone. They all seemed to already know this.

As the day wore on, we decided to organize a walk, a June's Dust Mite Allergy Walk, and I'll be getting the pledge forms to you forthwith. Also, I am coming up with a ribbon for you all, an awareness ribbon, so if anyone asks you, you can say, "Oh, do you not know about June's dust mite allergy?"

My idea is, it should be dusty, and dust should fall off of the ribbon, but the "dust" would be glitter! Right? Someone get on making that. We'll be rich. I'll never have to work again, which I shouldn't anyway with this allergy.

Then at lunchtime I took old homo sapien canine to the vet.


I actually really love that photo of Eds. It captures his goof. Anyway, he's been really down, despite that smile above. He was, in fact, shaking up there while he smiled.

Smile tho' your heart is aching
Smile even tho' it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by

Anyway. He's been so squirrely lately. Like, yesterday when we got up, and were headed down the hall, and he just stopped and hung his head and wouldn't go any further. And he never, ever goes outside unless I go with him. This past weekend I was looking for him, and he was curled up in a C on the couch, like I was storming over there wielding a sledgehammer.

You could have a steam train
if you'd just lay down your tracks.
You could have an aeroplane flying
if you bring your blue sky back.

I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name.

Welcome to the inside of my head.

Anyway, thank god he acted squirrely at the vet, so I didn't seem crazy, although given my medical condition I'm sure they'd overlook it. "Might Over Mites" is my slogan, by the way. It'll be on all my t-shirts and hats and support bracelets.

But really. He turned into a letter C there, and jumped on the chair and hid behind me, and cowered and so on the whole time, so the vet is giving him Prozac, which will be good because it'll probably be extra stressful for Eds when he learns about my dust mite allergy, so.

I got to tell the vet how Tallulah died, and then we moved twice, and how he misses Ned (Edsel does. The vet doesn't miss Ned. That I know of. Maybe he and the vet just ended a torrid Brokeback Mountain affair. What do I know?) and how he ate the puppy and knows I was mad at him. So that was cheerful.

Anyway now I have to go on Good RX to find the cheapest place in town to get dog Prozac. There's a thing no one ever said in my grandmothers' day.


I took old 19th Nervous Breakdown home, and as we pulled up, I don't know what made me look in the tree, but there it was. "Is that…? Oh, son of a BITCH," I said, getting out of my car with my camera for you all. You can't tell how high up that little bastard was; I zoomed in. He was wayyyy the hell up the tree. And when he saw us, he just clambered on down. "HAI!!"

My handyman (The handyman! The handyman can!) found a vent on my house that's missing its screen, and with all my dollars Ima get a new screen so Houdini, up there, can't escape anymore.


Really, that kitten is magnificent. I mean, I really admire his brains and ingenuity and athleticism and even his dickishness. He's really quite remarkable, and he's burying Lily right now, who mostly sits around and sheds chubbily.

Finally, I talked to a bunch of places about doing freelance, because my money sucks, y'all. I'm dead broke all the time. Further reports as developments warrant.


In the evening, my tenant, former, came over to work out again, a practice that obsesses Edsel. He cannot wrap his head around why we're on the floor and not willing to make out with him the whole time. Also, you can't see, really, but behind Edsel is my coat hanging off a chair, because tidy, and the whole time he was over there Steely Dan kept reaching from under my coat to smack Eds, and he'd jump up, confused, look around and flump down again and it'd start all over.

Dis part of room pointee.

Finally, last night I decided to snack on some nutritious Fritos, and I noted I had some queso dip in the door of my fridge, from god knows when. Perhaps I purchased it during the Spanish-American war, because while I enjoyed me that dip quite a bit, about an hour later, things weren't pretty.

If I'd been a dog, I'd have been a Shih-tzu.

If I were soda, I'd have been Squirt.

If I were mustard, I'd have been Grey Poupon.

Oh, it was bad. So I went to bed early just so I wouldn't have to think about how sick I felt. Today I'm at a 7–not perfect, but I can function. Which is brave of me, considering my dust mite allergy.

That wraps up my queer day. On a queer day, you can see forever.



Flounce and Fisher

Do you know what it means to flounce? People have done it here a few times: It's when something on the Internet bugs you, and instead of just not returning the site anymore, you announce to the group at large that YOU ARE OUT, and you AREN'T COMING BACK, and then you…flounce off.

There's a group on Facebook I'm a part of, and would you mind very much if I didn't reveal what it was? Sometimes I just wanna play on the Internet and not be June Gardens. As it is, I got women lookin' at my OKCupid, and I KNOW you're readers. You could at least HIT on me, 37-year-old chick from Florida or whomever.

Anyway. My point is, I'm in a group on Facebook and yesterday someone flounced. "Guess this group just can't [insert rest of passive-aggressive statement here]. I'm out."

Happens all the time, and it's needlessly dramatic and attention-seeking, which are two of my food groups, however I'm proud to say I've never flounced, I don't think. My POINT is, people started putting up memes in response to the flouncer, and they were KILLING me.

IMG_4562 IMG_4554IMG_4559

You can imagine. At this point I was giggling like an idiot. The Golden Flounce Award!

IMG_4560 IMG_4553


I really think my personal favorite was this last one…Simple and elegant.

Anyway, it served to amuse me greatly, and there was much snortling in the land.

In the meantime, I think I'm getting a cold. Everyone at work in these past weeks has been felled by a cold, and today I awoke with that sore throat-y feeling, which annoys me because I have a party to attend tonight and also a New Year's Eve thing I want to go to, and now I'm going to be FELLED, and there will be great moaning in the land. If I were you, I'd flounce till this cold is over. I'd flounce the land.

If I write a book, I should have a whole section on when I complain during my colds. Isn't it true that there are, like, a million different colds you can get and you get a different one each time? Did I invent that in my head? You don't want to be in here. In my land. Save yourself.

I returned to work yesterday, one of .0004 people who did at my office, and I found something to do, at least, but I also took two walks with Griff, which is always inspiring and positive. You'd think two curmudgeons could make a right, and we did make a right, right into Complainland. I like Griff, though. He's my people.

I had one more day off coming to me this year, and my boss, who of course showed up because he's hard-working and organized and sensible, said it didn't really matter which day I took, so I took today. Now probably tomorrow I'll be FELLED by illness and wishing I'd taken tomorrow off.

Once I got everything done at work that I could, I started perusing, as I'd gotten a gift card to there and didn't know what to buy. My boss, who did I mention sensible and level-headed, came over and said, "Why don't you just wait till you need something rather than look for something to buy?"

This is why he's the boss and I'm the minion. Also because I'm yellow.

Speaking of things in popular culture that I'm not a part of (I don't actually know what Minions are from. I just know they look like Twinkies and are from some movie. Probably one of those movies where people say, "They make it funny so adults enjoy it, too." Yeah. Right.)

But SPEAKING of popular culture, I saw the original Star Wars, once, in 1977, and no other iteration of it after that.

I am not taking Carrie Fisher's death personally because I admired her in a gold bikini or whatever people are into. I admired her writing. Go read Postcards From the Edge. Go read Delusions of Grandma. She and Nora Ephron are the people who, if I could just be half as clever as them, I'd have been happy. Pretty much everything that comes out of my mouth, and that's a lot, is derivative of something Carrie Fisher said first.

My favorite? Instant gratification takes too long.

Not to mention she was my favorite part of my favorite movie: When Harry Met Sally. All the very best lines are hers. I guess she and Nora Ephron must have at least known each other. I'd have stood there like an idiot. I would have said, "LOL" or something similarly embarrassing if I'd been there. "You two are funny." Something awful like that.

What I liked about Carrie Fisher was how she didn't care what you thought of her. And she didn't sugar-coat anything, except probably her sugar, cause it sounds like she enjoyed her a sweet or two, as addicts are wont to do. What I liked about Carrie Fisher is we all knew she was a recovering addict. We all knew she had bipolar disorder. It wasn't some dark bag of secrets she tried to tamp down.

When she had her one-woman show in LA, Wishful Drinking, I went by myself because Marvin was working. There was one part where she talks about working on the set of the movie Shampoo, and I believe she'd been up to that performance saying that she slept with Warren Beatty, which let's face it, she probably did. But at my particular show that I attended, Warren Beatty walked in. He walked in, stood in the aisle with his arms crossed, and when she got to that part, she said Warren Beatty hit on her 19-year-old self, but later told her he was "only kidding."

After that, Warren Beatty uncrossed his arms and left the theater.

And see, that's why I like her. Liked. Goddammit. Because she never felt the need to make herself look any better than she was, and it was BECAUSE she did that that she was more likeable than, say, a phony-ass Warren Beatty who wants to seem like a good guy 30 years after we all know perfectly well he probably gleefully bedded a teenager.

I imagine that she, like me, was probably exhausting to actually hang around, but you sure wanted to hear from her as often as possible, because you couldn't wait for her next pithy observation that you wish you'd have thought of first.

In short, I wish I could be Carrie Fisher. Except not dead. She's right up there for me with Laura Ingalls Wilder, who incidentally would have hated us both.

I'm out. [flounce]


Would you like to know what annoys me?

"Wait. June. Something annoys you?"

When people use trite phrases. For example, remember in The Wizard of Oz, when they said, "Lions and tigers and bears–oh, my!" It bugs me when people paraphrase that. Linens and teacups and bags–oh, my! Hail and winds and rain–oh, my!

And this is why I particularly hated myself more than usual when I realized I was out of gel today and said to my own self, "Houston, we have a problem." You've no idea how much I loathed my own self right then, but we really do have a problem, Houston.

I'd turned it upside-down, the gel bottle, and it all ran out onto the sink's surface and dried like There's Something About Mary.

I wish I'd mention more movies today. I get paid thousands of dollars each time I throw one in.

I saw Carrie last night ($$$$!!!!) at my old movie theater I like to go to. I've never seen it in its entirety, and one of the bitchy girls in the movie is actually the woman who was eventually in Ferris Bueller ($$$$$!!!), the principal's assistant who says, "They all say he's a rightous dude."

Anyway, it's a good movie, Carrie is, and the insane mom of Carrie has June Hair. She's also probably younger than me now, which is sad. Everyone's younger than me. My doctor is still older, thank god. But he's, like, half-retired.

Did I mention sad?

Also, I need to work in the phrase "dirty pillows" when referring to women's breasts more often. That's what the mom with June Hair called them. That Carrie mom seemed to have some sort of disorder.

Other than that, yesterday yawned before me with screaming emergencies and then nothing and then another screaming emergency and then nothing again. It's like working in an emergency room, except with words. In between EMERGENCY! NOTHING! I talked to The Poet, and I was telling her that I knew I had to go to the store after work, because I was 100% out of something, and now the end of the day was drawing nigh and I could no longer recall what I was 100% out of.

"Pudding?" she asked.

Pudding. Because once you're out of pudding, you're out of groceries.

It turned out to be Prilosec, which I consume by the gallon, and I should probably really return to the throat guy. He's really tall and long. Wears a lot of turtlenecks. Anyway I never did get any, because I couldn't remember and then I had to scream to Carrie ($$$$!!!!), and now today I will GERD all day. I'll be the hurdy GERDy girl. So.

I wish I could stay and talk about the important issues of our time, but I must be off. We had a yard sale fundraiser thing at work yesterday and I got measuring cups and a bowl and a dish towel, all from my competition, The Pioneer Woman. My own workplace selling the competition.


That clock back there I got for five years of service. It's very heavy, like an Academy Award.


My coworker Slutty Pancakes won the bike. There was a pretty bike, and I wanted it even though I can't ride a bike. "You can put your dog in the basket!" I told her resentfully when she went to retrieve it yesterday. I'd already pictured Edsel in that basket.


"The only dog that'd fit is the cremated one," she told me, and when she got home she texted me this:


Dying. So to speak.

Okay, I said I was going 72,000 words ago.

XO, Joooon

It’s a pretty good crowd for a Saturday

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

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

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

So, crap.


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


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


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

Oh my god, we all loved us the Moose.


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


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

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

She's thinking of running for off-hiss.

You get my drift.

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

I need to get over it.

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

Dear June: We hate you. Love, Readers.


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

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

Don't answer that.


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


Oh my god.

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

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

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

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

Right? I know!


Oh, you're welcome.


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

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


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


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

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

steelee dan waring his gray sweater again.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

"You should get drunk again," she advised.

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

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

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


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


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

Ned paid. Damn straight he did.

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

Talk to you later.



Like I blister in the sun

First of all, I answered most of your questions you had yesterday in the comments, and I'll go back after this and answer the rest. I had to work more than I thought I would yesterday, and was unable to post at lunch. The lunch I DID have was scarily interrupted by a "You coming to the meeting?" text about a meeting I wasn't alerted to on my alert-me thingy.

Remember when I just proofread all day? Oh, those heady days.

Also, I did something really, really stupid yesterday and now I have a major injury.


The day before yesterday, before I majorly injured myself, I was gonna interview a guy for our company newsletter, and I was waiting to take his photo as he walked through the doors and accidentally took this of myself. My hair has now faded enough that I just look like old Rusty Jones hair. Does anyone from the Midwest remember Rusty Jones?


I did still capture the guy as he walked through the doors. Look at that photojournalism. Oh, hey, D, you're in my blog today. Haiiii.

Anyway, so yesterday was a normal-ish day, in that I was busy for most of it and also that this one guy at work was going to get a kitten. Another person at work has a mom–I mean, we pretty much all do, it's the weirdest thing–and that mom lives next to some people whose cat had kittens. The mom asked if anyone at work would take a kitten and of course I was all I WILL!!!

I didn't, but my coworker did, and I can't remember if I already have a blog name for him or not.


It doesn't matter, though, because what does matter is KITTEN. That's the kitty, on top of this list of dumb names we all came up with. You can barely see my purple pen at the top suggesting Griff. I also later suggested Earl Grey.


This guy. Have I come up with a blog name for him yet? I know you've seen him before. After my major injury, I did not capture on film the arrival of the kitten, and this guy holding said kitten, and it was all the cutest thing and that kitty was so cute, although we still don't know what his kitty name is gonna be. Someone suggested Stoli, because he looks like a Russian Blue kitty, and I liked that one, myself. But let's stampede to my death-defying injury.

Oh, also, Dr. Claw. Love Dr. Claw.

Every day at 3:00, a bunch of us take a walk. It used to be around the building, twice, but then it occurred to us we're right next to a park, and there's a little trail with stairs that leads to said park, and we've only seen a snake on that trail twice, so we go that way, and walk this concrete path that leads to the end of the park, then back again. It takes about 17 minutes.

Yesterday I had on my cute gold MaryJanes, with the t-strap and the heels, and I love them, but I'd accidentally worn home my tennis shoes that I usually put on to do the walk. So I had no walking shoes, and I knew those high heels would kill me, but I really wanted to go on the walk because stress yesterday.

And that is when I decided to just walk in zero shoes.

As soon as I got to the BLISTERINGLY HOT, literally, parking lot of our building, I knew this might have been a mistake. But I did it, I walked the blacktop in August in the South, and then I walked over the wood chips and pine needles and snakes to the concrete path.

Eventually? I had to sit under a tree while Austin ran back and got my shoes. Then I had to hobble back to work on the heels I'd avoided. I'd given myself huge blisters on the bottoms of my feet, and now I can't really even walk. Oh, it's bad.

And for WEEKS–WEEKS!!–I'd been looking forward to last night's movie at my old theater I like to go to. They were showing Metropolis, which is a silent film set in "the future," and man did they ever get that right. It was just exactly like today, mostly the part where men where eye shadow and lipstick and open their eyes dramatically and claw their hands when anything noteworthy happens.

Who told actors to all do that back then? Calm down. Geez.

Anyway, they'd hired an organist to come and play the organ for the whole silent movie, and he was great, and I'd been dying to see all this. And because I am tough, I hobbled to it. In my fashionable tennis shoes. But look at June, dedicated to her cause.

Seriously, though, I feel like crap today. Also, I've had congestion and a terrible cough for days, and I'm assuming it's allergies, and now my feet are destroyed, and remember when Mary Richards won an award for her TV news show and she had a sprained ankle and a cold and her eyelash was falling off when she went to accept the award and she got up there and said, "I usually look so much better than this"? Remember that? That's how I feel now. Although let's face it. I don't really look any better than this, ever, anymore.

edz kind of theenkeng mom reep wat she so.

Oh shut up, Judge-y Edsel.

Talk to you later. Hey, maybe I'll walk on over. Or not.