I’m in my prime. You are too.

First of all, before we all up and forget, it’s Steely Dan’s birthday. He is one, according to the estimated birth date the vet gave him back when I first brought him in. I would take a picture of old Steely Dan, but he’s outside tripping the elderly or whatever the hell. Continue reading “I’m in my prime. You are too.”

byebyepie + 10

Today is the 10-year anniversary of me blogging, and I am certain you are delighted that day is finally upon us, as you are sick to death of my shit.

(These are pictures I found when I Googled byebyepie + 10)

I didn't plan what I was gonna say today, nor did I plan this BRILLIANT idea of Googling "byebyepie + 10," but I did think about these 10 years a lot in the context of this blog.

This started as a way to record my then-husband and me during our year of not spending any money. I know we got a down payment for our house out of it, but after re-reading during this whole, "Wow, 10 years!?" reflection, I see we'd saved TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS by APRIL! Jesus! What the hell with us! I don't even bring home $10,000 by April now.


The point is, that's how I started blogging, and I sent my first blog entry, on the hard-hitting Blogspot, to about 18 friends and family. I remember the day I figured out I was getting 30 unique visitors a day. And you wouldn't believe how many basic visitors I got. They all read me at Applebee's.

Bah. See. It was humor like that that kept 'em returning.


I kept blogging after that first year, and made friends with other bloggers–Musings of a Housewife and The Nester. (Oh my god, look how highfalutin' both their WEBSITES are, and here I still am in Typepad.) Two women I had nothing in common with–they're big fans of God–and yet I loved them both dearly. I mean, I really did. They were funny and sweet and MAN did they help me. Musings taught me how to link other sites, for heaven's sake. Nester mentioned me on her blog and 3949349402 people stampeded over that day.

I think I went from, like, 100 readers a day to 250, after that Nester boost. Mathfully, that's a bump of 900 thousand percent.


(Here we pause for June to be annoyed by how thin she was, and how Topamax stopped working for her that way, and why isn't life fair? WHY MUST LIFE PULL THE MIRACLE-PILL RUG OUT??)

Pretty soon, people were emailing me for love advice (they don't anymore, obvs) and cat advice and just writing me in general. They'd write long-winded emails about their lives, because I think it seemed like I became a friend. I was like an unattractive Jennifer Aniston.

At first, it was such a novelty, hearing from readers, that I'd tell Marvin–my ex–about it, and we'd be delighted together and so on. And then I started talking to my readers more than I did Marvin. Which is not why we got divorced, but it is telling.

I remember looking at my reader numbers and having a little test with myself. If at 3:00, I had 300 readers that day, I was cool. I highly recommend little tests like this; they are marvelous for your self-esteem. Always look outside yourself for your self-worth.

Self-Esteem Tips That Probably Are Stupid, by June.


It was when Marvin left that my already-growing numbers of readers shot up, and I promise I won't just be all JUNE'S RISE TO FAME. BY JUNE. IN A BLOG ABOUT JUNE. I'm about to get humble, I assure you.

But in the year 2011, I was getting–wow, I don't know–sometimes 4,000 readers a day? It was a lot, for me, anyway. I'd get hundreds of comments all the time, like it was nothing. I remember being at work and looking at my Gmail, and there'd always be 20 more emails to read from my blog email–those would all be comments.

It was exciting. I got gifts and emails from people and Marvin and I both got recognized out in public. Woo, it was a time. I grew genuinely fond of some readers, they became friends. I still haven't met most of them.

Then I blew it. Please see: June: Everything in her whole life.


I think it was my temper, as it always is, and my impulsiveness, as it always is.

Here are the ways I am shitty: I have a terrible temper where I fly off the handle. I make impulsive decisions I later regret. I say things I think are hilarious and end up hurting someone's feelings, going for the funny instead of thinking about being kind.

Those are m'big three. My Achilles' heels, which are not nearly as cute as my sparkly ones up there.

One day I asked everyone on this blog to tell me where they lived. Hey, here's where you're all from! That kind of thing. The next morning on my way out somewhere, I recorded hundreds of answers and hit "Publish."

So, in a hurry and then also maths. Plus geography.

I went out to lunch with the Tall Boy, I remember, and when I came back I had all sorts of fairly whiny comments. I'm SORRY, but they WERE.

JOOOOOON! You didn't mention my state!

I'm from Ucatabwah and you didn't mention it!

JOOOOOOOOOON! You added wrong! I sat here all morning and added them myself and see you said 14 people are from Hoodehoochville and it's 15!

So here's what I did. Here's my stellar, mature response and I want you to know I'm WORLDS different now.


I pulled the post.

I just yanked it down, in a huff, the way my grandmother would have, and went about my day haughtily. FINE, then. You know I'm in big trouble when I say to myself, "FINE, then." Something impulsive this way comes.

My numbers have never been as big since. Well, I say that, but I don't really know that. Sitemeter went crazy on the hair-oyn and left town years ago, Google Analytics made itself way harder than it needs to be, so I…yanked myself off it it in an impulsive huff. (Shut up.) So now I don't even know how many people read me, and really, who cares? Asks the woman who just went on about it for 90 paragraphs.


But here's what I learned. I learned that people will come and go. They will get over you faster than a Wacky Wall Walker. And you have to treasure the ones who stay around, even when you are not charming. Those are the people who matter.

So, thank you to the ones who've stuck around for 10 years, even when I was boring that day or so full of myself that you felt barfy. Thank you for staying through dead pets and relationships and trial puppies and migraines. Thank you for staying through all the selfies and my selfishness. Thank you for watching my goddamn videos and for never saying, "June, stop dancing."

Because I will always keep dancing.


I will continue to be all the flawed things I am, and it's lovely to be loved through them by all y'all all.

Your close, personal friend whom you've never met,




Yesterday, I got interviewed about my writing, because hashtag SoFamous, and the interviewer (pfft. My coworker, Austin) asked me about the "sassy Midwestern moms" who read my blog.


"Actually, I'm big in Texas and Florida," I told him. And it's true. Whenever I do a roundup of who you are, I get a lot of readers from there, but they're big states, so.

I guess I don't think of you as moms, although you probably are, as most women in general are.

Sassy, yes, although I get a lot of people writing to me via Facebook or email saying they don't comment because they don't feel as clever as my regular commenters, and cut that out. You don't have to be a star, baby, to be in my show.

How much do you not like me right now?

Anyway, who are you? I always like finding out. Please, if you please, tell me…

Your age

Your state (not insanity or nausea. Where do you live, Shecky Greene?)

Are you female?

Do you have kids?

Are you sassy? I wonder now. Is everyone out there sassy?

Would you eat a bowl of Captain Crunch right now if it were offered to you?

I usually picture you all as a combination of Faithful Readers Paula and Sadie. Somewhere between clever and kind, and somewhere around my age. I always think of you all as my funny friend who wants the best for me, which is why it's always so shocking when some hateful snake in the grass pops up. I forget anyone can read this, even people who hope I trip into a vat of copperheads.

Instead you lay still in the grass all coiled up and hissin. But I meant. Every word I said. When I said that I love you I meant that I'd love you forever. AND I'M GONNA KEEP ON LOVIN' YOOOO. Cause it's the only thing I wanna dooooo.

Oh my god, anyway. Tell me. Age/state/sex/kids/sass/crunch.

Thank you. Oh, and P.S. These comments come to me as emails, and an email that just reads Yes, No, Yes, Probably is confusing. If you could sort of repeat the question and then give the answer. Female: yes. Kids: no. That sorta thing. Thank you!

Our Lady of Perpetual Calendars

I'm having some Greek honey yogurt with some almonds, and every time I eat Greek yogurt I feel like I'm eating just a teensy piece of Faithful Greek Reader Fay.

Look how this blog has affected my life.

When we last left off, what had I done? …Oh, walked. Right. Fucking walked. I was Walker, Texas Ranger. I was Karen Walker.


Well, Saturday night, I decided to try a new restaurant. The woman who sits next to me, The Alex Who Sits Next To Me (TAWSNTM) is very hep. You can imagine how it delights her to be next to my cool self. "No, June, I …haven't read the Twilight books."

Anyway, she likes this one restaurant over by the one college, so I tried it. Dragged a date. An interminable date. At this point, I'm like Mary Richards on the Mary Tyler Moore Show. If you're 70, you'll recall the show, and she always had sort of mannequin good-looking men come get her for dates, then you'd never see them again.

I wonder what Mary Richards did wrong? Like, did she ghost on everyone after the way I do? Was she still hung up on her fiance? Remember she had a fiance, a doctor, and that's how that whole show started? We were supposed to be excited for her that she did that, and that love was all around with Murray Slaughter and a studio apartment with Phyllis as your landlord, but the whole time I was all, You scored a DOCTOR, you maroon.

My mother is shooing herself with a gun from her Phyllis Schlafly Your Daughter Didn't Turn Out Liberated Ha Ha End It Now gun collection.

Oh my god anyway. So, it looks just like a little corner bar, the restaurant does. It's a cool old building, with original glass double doors on the front. And it IS just a tiny corner bar, technically, but everything in there is adorbs.

Yes, I said adorbs.

They have mismatched bar stools ("Honey, honey, honey, you don't like my BAR STOOLS?") that are all vintage. There'll be a green tufted backed one next to a sunny orange backless. Oh, it's marvelous.

Sixties curtains.

And delicious pretentious food.

They infuse their alcohol right there, so I had a margarita made with tequila infused with strawberry and jalapeno. I also had brisket and smashed red potato and salted caramel bread pudding.

I wanted to keep eating after I was wafer-thin-mint full. I wanted to barf so I could order something else and see how THAT tasted. It was so good I can't even begin to tell you, although it looks like I have. I LOVE that place. I will go to that place all the time. And no, I will not tell you the name because I don't want it to get like Hops. Local people will know what I mean. Fucking Hops. "Oh, it's a 26-hour wait."

Then yesterday I dragged Ned to Sully. That was his punishment for making me walk to the folk festival: He had to go to a mainstream movie. And it was even at the shitty basic theater, where they, like, fly in their popcorn rather than make it on site. Ned hates that place.

I always get the nachos with the orange cheese that they pump out of something, perhaps the bowels of hell, and Ned always has 48 fits that I eat that stuff. Yesterday the theater has added a charming thing: They tell you how many calories are in their snacks.

Turns out? My nacho chips and "cheese"? 800 calories!!!

Who knew?

Ned got a small bag of popcorn and a bottle of water. Calories? 350. Fuck Ned.

It was a good movie, although we were both seriously annoyed at the 20 minutes of previews. TWENTY MINUTES. In which I managed to pretty much finish my 800 calories. But I liked the movie, because who doesn't like Tom Hanks, and also I wish to never fly again oh my god.

Do you know what I'd be good at? Air traffic control. Welcome to my cool head and composed nature.

Speaking of work, after that I had some freelance stuff to do for this place I used to work at back in the '90s. They still use me for their proofreading, and I had to proof a magnetic calendar that they send out to all their clients. Not that it has charisma, but rather that it sticks to your file cabinet or whatever.

On the back is a perpetual calendar, and I was your Lady of Perpetual Calendars yesterday, making sure when they said 1910 was the same calendar as 2007, it was true.

It was fun to proofread again. It's so soothing. You look up and three hours have passed and all you've thought of is, "Was 1997 a leap year?"

Anyway, I was done with that, and was just sitting down to watch a Fred Astaire movie when my doorbell rang. It was already dark, and I wasn't expecting anyone. For the first time in his goddamn life, Edsel didn't bark.

"Who is it?" I asked.

Pause. "It's me." A male voice.

I deadbolted the door. "Uh-uh, you don't say 'It's me' like that. Who is this?" The voice sounded like a teenager, but still.

'It's…Sean, I guess," he said.

"I have a mean dog, I can't answer the door," I said, and the kid left.

I mean, I guess he was a kid. Guess who forgot she had a peephole?

Then after I got scared. Did you ever listen to that awful 911 tape where the woman calls 911 (hence that I called it a 911 tape) and says a strange man had just come to her door claiming to be looking for someone "and I'm an old woman, I live alone," she says BEFORE HER PHONE CLUNKS AND SHE STARTS SCREAMING?

That is what I thought of all night. I called Ned, because calling the police to say, "Someone came to my door" seemed over the top.

"You wanna stay over here?" Ned asked. So then I had the choice between staying here and letting Sean I Guess break in and kill me, or go to Ned's and try not to have sex with him, when I already resisted once and COME ON, god. Because Ned and I fought like demons when we were a couple, but then we were the world's most sexually compatible people. Sex was what we did best. It was our joint.

We were award-winning. We got the Screwlitzer.

We won the Nobel Piece Price.

We got the Good Housekeeping Squeal of Approval.

So, stay here and get murdered, or go to Ned's and have a thousand tiny deaths?

I stayed here. With Mute Fang. Who, fortunately, at least spooned me all night and for once I was glad to grab his clawed feet of Lottie gouging and wrap them closer to me. And here I am, still alive. Maybe Sean I Guess was casing the joint and he'll be back tonight.

I did bring a sledgehammer and put it next to my bed. It's like Peter Gabriel spent the night.

So that's my weekend, and I guess I'd better shower and hope that Sean I Guess doesn't Norman Bates me in there.







Okay, I'll stop

The one where June has the BEST READERS, even if they do give advice

I haven't been here in ages and now I have 296 things to tell you.

On Tuesday, TypePad was down and I could not post and I was SO MAD, because I wanted to tell you something SO COOL and I couldn't.


The Alex who sits next to me is a grownup. Compared to me. Which. Anyway, she and her boyfriend have wanted a dog for a LONG TIME, but they were being sensible and waiting till they both had real jobs, which ? Just go to a parking lot. There are plenty of free dogs there. Pound sign: Two Parking Lot Dogs So Far.

She's worked at my office for I think two years now, and she's doing great there and it's not at all annoying. We'll have meetings and it'll be all, "Alex wrote THIS and it was WONDERFUL and we ALL HAD A BIG PARTY in our PANTS over it. Oh, and June wrote something too."

Anyway, her boyfriend also just got a real job–he'd been in school. So this past weekend was their first visit to the shelter, where they thought they'd start looking and begin the whole months-long process about disagreeing on which dog to take.

They didn't disagree.

"I fell in love with a dog this weekend," said Alex, who never says anything. I swear her first year she never spoke. She's super intimidating, with her reserve and her smart brain and all, till you get to know her and you realize she's way nicer than you. Which.

"Oh, the dog you'd been looking at?" she'd been online, and we all know how that is, when we get hooked on the dog porn that is PetFinder.

"No, at the shelter. Look at him." She had pictures of him on her phone. And I hate to be obsessed, but doesn't that look like Lottie of the Future, with the muzzle and the eyebrowns and so on?

Lottie of the Future!

Well, that's when I got invested, because you can imagine how she was clamoring for me to get all up in her life. Oh, good, June's on it. "Are you going to GET him?" I tried to keep the Aunt Bee tremor of excitement out of my voice.

"We want to, but we didn't expect to find a dog this soon. I don't know if we can afford everything he needs."

Of COURSE she can't afford everything he needs. No one can. I mean, I can't, ever. Which. But I mean, new dog. Entirely new dog. She doesn't even have any old, dead dog shit she can dredge up. So not only are there shots and neutering (the shelter does the neutering, at least), but there's the vet wellness visit in general, and bowls, and a giant brush (that dog's gonna need a giant brush) and leashes and dog nail polish because I've decided he's trans and the Welcome My Dog party.

And of course the DNA test. Dogs are expensive.

And that's when it hit me. YOU GUYS. You guys are like ME. You're TOTALLY gonna want her to get this two-year-old dog out the shelter and home with her. I know she'll give it a solid home, and YOU know I wouldn't condone anything else, so OH MY GOD I was so excited to sneak behind her back and get funds.

Then the damn Type and its Pad wouldn't work.

is mom goeeg to have fit? it feel like fit tyme.

I don't even KNOW what's on that dog's eyebrow. Is he doing his Lottie impression? Impresh? Is it Faithful Reader Anita who hates that? Impresh. There. I said it again. ANITA.

At any rate, because I couldn't get on MY OWN BLOG which I pay BIG DOLLARS for every year (it comes out to $15 a month. Still.), I did the next-best thing.

I got on Pie on the Face.

If you're new here, and really? Blogs were a thing in like 2007. But here you are. "Oh, a BLOG!" I mean, I'M still here, sure, but I'm old and sad. What's your excuse? And oh, hey, welcome!

Anyway, if you're new here, Pie on the Face is where people who LOVE this blog and can't get enough of ME join together to show each other cat videos. As opposed to the rest of Facebook where that never happens. But sometimes they'll write something on the cat video like, "June loves cats."

I do. I do love cats. Not that you'd know I'd had any, what with this all-dogs-all-the-time blog lately.

hooo care.

Yes, I DID just paint that porch two years ago. I need a real person to come fix the steps and paint everything. My birthday is coming up. Now you know what to get me.

Dear June, Go fuck your own self. Love, Your Readers

Look at stretchy Iris. God, I love that cat.

Anyway, so on Tuesday morning, after being SQUELCHED by TypePad, I stampeded to Pie on the Face and told you guys my work neighbor Alex's tale of woe. "Let's all throw in five bucks and help her get that dog!" I said. "Here's my PayPal info," I said. Then I left for work.

It's a six-minute drive. By the time I got to work, bitch already had 57 dollars. (PayPal takes a cut unless you specify it's for a friend.)

I remained silent.

By the time I logged in and got coffee and snarled at everyone, she had 75. (squee!)

I think I broke by the first $100, but maybe I made it to 150. But eventually I confessed. "I KNEW they'd help you get this dog," I said. I was beside myself.

"Oh my god, June, I can't take that money," she said, amazed. "It's for YOU and you HAVE to," I said. She texted her boyfriend. "He wrote that I should pick you up and give you a big squeeze," she said, excited.

That is when I cockpunched her.

By the end of the day, you guys sent her more than FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS, which she thinks is too much and which every dog owner knows is not even enough. I told her to start a savings just for the dog, and then she'll have it if she needs to call the trainer, or board him, or when he swallows a dime or something.

The dog will be theirs by the weekend. He's officially THEIR DOG OH MY GOD THANK YOU SO MUCH, you guys. You really are the bomb.

Tomorrow I will tell you the other 257 things I have to tell you, and what I like about myself is my consistency with numbers.

do reeders think they can find new home for LOTee? a home wear no one hold her 87 howrs a day? LOTee WISH TO PLAY. PLAY! LET LOTee PLAY! OOOOO, der a…thing! LOTee must get…THING!

The state of things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


June the puss

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

Screen Shot 2016-03-29 at 9.26.21 AM

Served by Mr. Salty and Buddha


There're a brief few days every spring where Peg's dogwood meets my redbud across our driveways, kind of a Hands Across America of blossoms, and it's so pretty, but it's been so cloudy that I wasn't able to capture it well. I hope it's sunny today. I never check the weather. I'm always stunned that people know what the weather's gonna be like. I'm all, "How do you KNOW that? Are you some kind of sorcerer?"

I prefer to be surprised. The druids never knew what the weather was gonna be, and they got along okay.

The first time Marvin and I ever Did It was the same day as Hands Across America, which has always sort of cracked me up.

Hi, Marvin's mom, whom I think still reads my blog.

I really have no idea who reads this stupid blog or not. Ned told me one of his ex-girlfriends still does, and I was surprised, but HEYYY, Not Harriet! I've always liked you. Also, his uncle, the nicest guy on earth, still does, too, because Ned told me he asked about Tallulah and how we were doing here and all that. Hey, Ned's uncle. You're welcome for that inside guff on the Hands Across America thing.

Who else reads me who knows me in real life? The other day there was a little exchange between commentors, and one of them said, "How do you know June? I went to high school with her." I was all, You DID? I still have no idea who that was, but Dear Person I Went to High School With: My readership extends beyond people who know me. Yeesh. Arrogantly, June.

Anyway, tell me. Tell me how you know me, and where you're living, and if you DON'T know me, tell me where you live. I always like to see where everyone is. Makes me feel cozy, just all of us snuggled up here across America. OR THE UNIVERSE.

How do you know June. GEEZ.


We had a relatively quiet weekend here at house of pie, and I hate myself for calling it that. After I last wrote you, the only other social thing I did was go see My Big Fat Greek Wedding II, electric boogaloo, and sometimes it's nice to be broken up with Ned. Because he would RATHER DIE, he would RATHER VOTE FOR DONALD TRUMP, than go see a movie like that.

The only issue I had with it was Lot's Wife made the popcorn. I know you've missed me pulling that joke out for a change. I ate only half the bag, it was that salty. Maybe Mr. Salty got a job at the theater. Hey, times are tough. I wonder if he resents having to serve popcorn when he spent his whole career being a competitive snack. I wonder if he's twisted up inside over it.

I didn't see a human pretzel making the popcorn, but what I did see was that guy who works there who looks just like a Buddha. He's thin, but he has this Asian, serene face and he looks like he should be on a necklace or something. He also gets your snack items serenely, and guess who is not serene when he does that?

In fact, it was crowded as shit at that theater yesterday, and I was all, Who ARE you people? Isn't this supposed to be the Bible Belt? Shouldn't you be at all-day worship talking about a sepulcher? What the fuck with you ham-less movie-goers? It was 2:30 in the afternoon. I thought I'd have the place to myself. But no. Line out the goddamn door.

After that line, there was a line for popcorn served by Mr. Salty and Buddha, and I was two families back when I saw this woman in the next line on one of those scooter things for one leg, you know, the thing people who have an injury use to scoot around on with the other good leg? She had that contraption, her popcorn, and a beer in her mouth.

"Do you want some help?" I asked her.

"Oh, I would! Thanks!"

I walked her back to theater three while she talked about her injury and how hard it was to navigate and how she didn't know this theater served beer and that she was so excited to have a beer, as it had been months. She was going to see some terrible movie with death in the title, I forget what it was, not a cerebral film such as My Big Fat Greek Wedding II, and anyway when I got back the line had dissipated and I was rewarded with Salt Block II, Electric Boogaloo popcorn.


We really need to bring back the scarf-rolled-up-tied-around-the-forehead look. I think that was a look during Hands Across America. And now you're picturing me in a passionate embrace with Marvin, a scarf tied 'round my perm. Yes, there was a perm. Of course there was.

It took me the whole decade to finally say, Hey, Curly, why the perm? Doesn't this seem redundant?

Anyway, it was okay. The movie, I mean. The Greek Wedding movie. They got absolutely everyone to come back to be in it, which was pretty cool. Even the old grandma. As opposed to the infant grandma.

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In case you were worried about Edsel, you can see he's doing great. Now he's melting off chairs; he's Salvador Dali dog. Poor Edsel. It's the persistence of memory.

Before Tallulah's untimely demise that was my fault, I filmed her doing just everything. Snoring, wagging at me, harrrring. Yesterday I missed her so much that I got on the computer and played the "Harrrrr" video, and when Edsel heard her voice he ran into the room. Then I felt like a dick for doing that to him.

I'd better go dry my hair and get a scarf around my forehead.

Don't stick your finger in that boogaloo, it's electric.


June "Shabba-Do" Gardens

[Don't forget to say how you know me or where you're from.] [Bracketedly, JOOOON]

The one where June convinces self that 2016 will be HER YEAR! The one where June does that every year, and look how 2015 turned out.

Here we are, at the end of this damn year. On New Year's Eve of last year, Ned and I got into a fight, and I spent the entire night in my room, crying, with a bottle of wine. I watched the year tick down by Googling it.

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Here's me, last year, 8 o'clock at night. Only 4 hours of sitting there angrily to go! Is that a blanket on the bed back there, or did I import some kind of large mammal into the sitch? I wouldn't put large-mammal-into-the-sitch past me.

Well, anyway. Tonight should be cheerfuller. It's my friend The Poet's birthday, so if they let us out early today, Ima take her to that fancy hotel I like, have my way with her, or alternatively get cream sodas with her. She's not what you call a big drinker. Then after my friend The Other Copy Editor is having a New Year's party.

You know, I feel like no matter what I do on New Year's, it'll never beat the time I ended up making out with my friend's brother while "Babe" by KC and the Sunshine Band played out his clock radio. It was just so unexpected, me and my double belt pressed up to Donny W. I was 47.

No, no. Ninth grade. It was ninth grade.

Then tomorrow I'll do what I always do on the first, which is go to the park downtown and take part in that group meditation. Then after THAT, my friend Jo is having a party, so hello, busy.

I hope your new year is full of surprises as wonderful as pressing your double belt up against an eighth-grader.

Yes, he was a younger man. June, a cougar even then.

In other news, last night my neighbor Peg came over. Peg, of the give-you-the-norovirus neighbors Peg.


One great thing about my year abroad is that Tallulah forgot she hated Peg. She's hated Peg since she was a puppy, and Peg had the nerve to lean over the fence into Tallulah's yard. But last night all was copacetic. She did not attempt to murder Peg even once.

The point of her visit was that she was gonna look at where I'd put everything and tell me what I did wrong. Peg is an interior designer, kind of a celebrated one around here, and I don't know how I score, knowing fancy authors and designers and poets and artists and also Marty.

See what I did, there? Hey, Marty Martin!

We spent three hours moving stuff around, Peg and I did. I don't mean we'd take a picture from the wall and jiggle it a minute and put it back. Why would we do that? But that's the image I got when I wrote that sentence, so. Welcome to my mind.

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She had me move my books all over yonder, so it wouldn't be one full shelf of books and then one shelf of knickknacks. And she's really good at seeing something you have lying around in one place, like a damn pillow or basket, and telling you to put it in another place altogether.

I didn't even show you what she did in the dining room, and I'd get up and do that, but Iris is purr-pawing on my arm and I don't wish to disturb her.

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You know what that reminds me of?


This kitten picture of Iris. Awwww. Kitten Iris. She was a ludicrous-looking kitten. Her eyes were all screwed up. But now she's such a beautiful cat. People are all the time saying how pretty she is, and I always say, "I KNOW! How is it a cat with no eyeballs can be so pretty?"

At least I'm ending 2015 in my usual linear fashion, where I take one topic and stick to it. I'm re-showing you my end-of-year video, because it's tradition to show it the last day of the year, and you know how traditional I am. Also, last time I showed it to you on the mobile version and this is the desktop version so allegedly it'll be clearer. My suggestion is you click on the title of the video and watch it on YouTube so you can make it bigger and not have to deal with that ad at the bottom. You can X the ad out. Stupid YouTube.


Talk to you next year! Thanks for sending me Dresscember donations, and coffee, and TVs, and for reading my bullshit all year. You made 2015 tolerable, you know.



June will not say something tired like haters gonna hate.


Good hair day yesterday. …Oh, look. A pet in the background.

I've been blogging now for nigh on nine years. I have no idea what "nigh on" means. Does it mean "almost"? Because that would be inaccurate; it's now more than nine years. Nigh on nine years. I'm just gonna go ahead and make "nigh on" mean whatever I want it to mean.

Because I've been blogging for such a nigh on time, it's inevitable that some people who read me aren't gonna like me. The part where I let my bitch flag fly high probably doesn't help. I might even be a tad polarizing. Like cilantro. I am nigh on cilantro.

The first person to hate me was that Carin person, who when one day when I felt sad about something or other, and I got here and said I don't feel remotely funny today, took offense. I've noticed that any time I get on here and say I feel sad, people are mean. It's the oddest phenomenon, but it never fails, and years go by and I don't dare say I'm sad, then I forget and it happens again. I have literally typed a blog post in tears, mostly when things were going bad with Ned and me at the end, there, and written a whole funny tra-la-laaa! blog post just to avoid the mean.

But man, she really came out of nowhere. She accused me of trying to sell coffee mugs. Of course I was trying to sell coffee mugs. You can still buy coffee mugs, by the way. There's a button on the upper right. Anyway, she was mean. And then we all hilariously talked about her for freaking months. Any time I'd lose my glasses, someone would say, "Carin took them." Or Carin was responsible for a traffic jam, or she gave me the flu. I hope poor Carin didn't off herself.

Then some nutbar wrote me and told me I was bipolar. Bipolar. Pfft. I have no poles other than crabby. I think that whole thing was pretty much behind the scenes; she didn't leave mean comments so much as she left me mean emails. She also, I realized later, started a fake Facebook account, in which I was her only friend. Any time anyone friend requests me now and they have, say, seven friends and/or no photo, I do not accept the request.

Oh! And THEN there was that wingnut Kelly. I'm not saying if you hate me you have to be crazy. I can see how I would grate, believe me. Look, not everyone in the world can be as sweet as Faithful Reader Megsie or FR Sadie. You want a sweet blogger, go read The Nester. You want cilantro, you're in the right place.

Anyway, Kelly would leave all kinds of mean comments, like "Ned will leave you soon because you're so unattractive" and "Do you have rosacea?" Oh my god, she was a gem. And I'd block her, and she'd get another IP to comment from. THAT is what I mean by being a nut.

But now? Oh, now. I have the best hater of all. Because what this person did was BRILLIANT and I cannot help but love it.

About a month ago, I started getting emails on my blog email from The Gap, and Banana Republic, and Old Navy. I know they all belong to the same company, so getting mail from ALL EFFING THREE was annoying, but I understood it. The thing is, I never use this email address for anything except your comments. It's nigh on anything else. Today in the comments we have to use "nigh on" absolutely incorrectly all day long.

Anyway, I deleted them, but I was also curious about how I even GOT on Banana Republic's mailing list.

Then I started getting emails from Sears. And beauty-supply companies (hey! I'll take those!), old-lady stores like Soft Surroundings and medical supply companies for my walker.

And then? The Duggars' newsletter.

And right then I knew. Someone was fucking with me. Someone was signing me up for anything she could get her hands on. This must be a girl doing this, right? Men are never this vengeful in such a clever way. Men just shoot you in the head or whatever. Women are diabolical, man.

And it was the newsletter from the Duggars that made me love her. Because THIS WAS SO GREAT. Now I can't wait to see who she signs me up with next. Sometimes I get the introductory email. "Thank you for signing up for the Bible Passage a Day email. Click here to confirm."

I wish I had thought to do this to someone. I mean, I still could, but now it'd be derivative. I would so sign Hulk up for Animal Lovers Unite, or Yay, Democrats! or something. Or some super-gay-a-day email. Daily Dick Pics. I mean, once you start thinking of someone you want to torment, you can really go to town on what to sign them up for.

Actually, now that I think about it, when Marvin and I first separated, I did forward him all my Increase Your Penis Size spam, just for awhile. But that wasn't as genious as this.

Anyway, I'll keep you abreast. Today I got a Wall Street Cheat Sheet subscription, because you know how I can't get enough of checking on my stocks. It's like a little gift in my email, every day. It's like it's always Christmas, but not depressing, suck-out-your-soul regular Christmas. God, aren't you glad it's over? I am nigh on the fact that it's over.

Nigh on,