Toasted since 1964

I just timed how long it takes for me to take care of all the current animals: 15 minutes. I didn’t get any time to just sit with and pet all the kittens, so without, you know, being kind to kittens, just basic feeding and scooping and changing water, it’s 15 minutes.

I guess that’s not so bad, except the whole getting-ready-for-work thing is always something of a rush, especially if you’re someone who also says, Hey, I guess I’ll sit down and write about my life to a couple-thousand people before I dash off to work.

Anyway, here’s what I did this dang weekend. What about you?

Friday.
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My coworker had a partay, and do you wish I’d stop saying “partay” already? Anyway, she did, and careful readers will note I go to this party (partayy) every year at this time, as it is this coworker’s birthday but she never says that.

IMG_7954.jpgI’d planned to stay maybe an hour or two, then get back to my 97 kittens, but careful readers will see that day turned into night, night divides the day. Try to run, try to hide, break on through to the other side.

And yes. That is a coworker with a light balanced on her head. It seemed to be the thing to do.

img_7943.jpgI left that to the younger crowd.

IMG_7961.jpgI got home to my kittens and their kitten crumbs pretty late, and the mom was waiting for me with a rolling pin.

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“ware you bin?”
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“yuu haff any ideeee wat time it be?”
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“it okaaa. mom do it all herself. she fine. …SYYYY.”

Saturday.
When my high school swain, Cardinal, was here a few weeks ago, he told me about this really cool cemetery in Milton, NC, and you know what sounds good are pastries from Milton the toaster. Hey, June, how’s keto going?

Still on it. But I’d slap your grandpappy’s half uncle for a Pop-Tart.

So I drove there. To Milton. Hoping to meet Mr. Toaster. Tell me I’m not the only person who remembers Milton the Toaster.

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He always seemed to have a touch of the rosacea.

I remember this one just bitch of a reader, who couldn’t wait to say mean things to me whenever she could, and what is that? What makes your life so empty that you take time to find a blog, then hate what the person wrote, and stick around so you can be angry?

Anyway, I had some makeupless picture up and she commented, “Is that rosacea?”

I’m tryina think of the other bitch-ass things she wrote over the years till I blocked her. But that’s the only one I can recall now.

I also recall in my first year of being separated, dating someone for, like, a week, and it didn’t work out, but that same weekend of deciding that torrid one-week affair wasn’t going to work, going on another date and kissing that second date goodnight, and coming back here to tell you all that it went well, and someone said they’d never read again because “all the drama” was “dangerous.”

Good lord with people. Good lord with my short sentences like the one above.

But back to my cemetery.

IMG_7999.jpgBefore I got to get in the car and head to the dead, I had to take Cora Godsey and her seven Walton children to the shelter, for their checkups and shots. Steely Dan didn’t join us. But I like this photo of him. When he’s indoors, he’s just longing to go out.

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ruk roff. eeeting.

So he can do this. He caught some sort of rodent Saturday morning, and what berserk eyes of murder? Good lord. More delightful updates on that in a moment. Stay tuned!

Anyway, I took the 2,000 kittens to the shelter, and they’re all doing well. I go back in two weeks with them for another checkup, and I would not be surprised if by then they will be adoptable. That’s also the day of the royal wedding, and also the baseball thing here (Official Name®) is giving away Prince Harry bobbleheads to the first 1,000 visitors and of COURSE I’m going, so two Saturdays from now will be big with me.

After I got 101 Kittmations back home and situated, I got on the road to see the dead people.

June, knowing how to throw down. June, toasted like Milton the toaster, since 1964.

The drive there was all country roads, which I love.

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And the town of Milton was cute!

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Keep scrolling. BAHAHAHAHA.
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I guess I should’ve, you know, stepped back, but these are trees growing out of an old building.

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IMG_8030.jpgI even met goaties!

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“You come here often?”
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I promised I’d send them this after I took it and still haven’t.

Anyway, finally I found the cemetery.

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IMG_8060.jpgIf you ever want to be horrible to me, like if that “Is that rosacea” woman is in charge of me after I depart the earth, put me in a treeless cemetery with fake flowers on the graves. THAT would be horrible, to me.

Sunday.
On Sunday, I acknowledged the 900 animals here.

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IMG_8083.jpgIMG_8107.jpgFaithful Readers Happy and LaUral both came by to see kittens, and you know, I CALL them faithful readers, but I have no idea if they actually read my blog/not blog or just saw kittens on Instagram or whatever. Hoooo care.

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[Potentially] FR Happy, whose philosophy is, Why photograph a kitten when you have your thumb?
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[Maybe] FR LaUrual, who is not going to be IGNORED by Eds.
Anyway, LaUral was somewhat in the market for another cat, because you can never have enough cats, just ask me. And she landed on MaryEllen.

Not literally.

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MaryEllen is brave, and seems to be good with dogs, which is good because LaUral has a giant white 4,500-pound dog, so.
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And they have similar coloring.
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Family portrait. It’s Olan Mills at my house. That’s a fake bookshelf behind them.

Once I take the kittens back to the shelter, I’ll tell them I have a person who wants to adopt one, and they’ll set it up. Just six to go, plus a mom!

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kittee feeel confident she find home. look at all dis.

IMG_8140.jpgThe rest of the afternoon was quiet, and as evening approached, I headed to the grocery store to buy more damn keto food. Steely Dan was hunkering over by the trash cans, which isn’t like him. I petted his velvety head and left.

I ran into my doctor at the store, of all things, and he was glad I was going keto. “It really burns fat if you stick with it,” he said, as he reached for skim milk and I reached for heavy whipping cream.

When I got home, SD was still by the trash cans. Was he injured or something? I had to take the trash cans out of there, anyway, so I went over to talk to him and he seemed fine.

Then I rolled the first totally full recycle bin. I rolled it

OVER

A

BABY

CHIPMUNK.

That’s why that jerk was stationed at the trash cans! For at least 45 minutes! That’s why! And I FINISHED IT OFF FOR HIM with my trash can!

Oh my god, I was devastated.

You shoulda seen that evil cat, poking at the poor thing. he really ded? 

That cat practically high pawed me. Gave me the high four.

We’re like Bonnie and Clyde now.

Goddammit. I will never get over that. I feel horrible. Also, this is three dead rodents in a weekend, and they may all have been chipmunks, and is there some kind of chipmunk colony in my yard? If so, they picked the wrong yard.

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Edz didn’t get to eet any chipmonks

I gotta go, but I guess I’ve filled you in on all the happs over here. Also, Dear June: Don’t say “happs.”

Happs,
June

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The stitch has been fixed. The eagle has landed.

I ended up getting invited to two things last night, because apparently Tuesday is the hot night now or something, and the point is that over the course of the evening, I had a glass of Prosecco and then two glasses of chardonnay, because I’m a girl. Then at my now-usual wakeup time of 4 a.m., I had a splitting headache and slept in this morning.

There was a time I could have three drinks in preparation for my workday. When did I get so wimpy?

So write fast I must, but I hated to leave you without the stunning results of our StitchFix polls yesterday. It would appear that about 355 of you voted, which is a pretty good turnout when I had (lemme go see) 1,430 readers yesterday. According to my maths, 407% of people participated.

img_6725A stunning 88% of you voted that my boss, fmr., keep that bird shirt. I hope she perches on that decision and spends some bills on this shirt.

The distressed jeans caused some distress, and oh, lort, June, are you gonna do this throughout? Only 55% said to keep them, which distresses me out. June stop.

IMG_6717We were double-breasted on the coat, too. It was pretty much half and half (49% yes, 45% no) on whether it should stay or should it go, now. If it goes it will be double (breasted) and if it stays it will be double (breasted, still).

That’s it, June. I’m leaving.

IMG_6731At least we were all in agreement that we hated a wrinkle in time, over here. A weird 1.36% voted she should keep this. I’d like to hear from this elusive 1.36%. Do you also hate chocolate and Tom Hanks?

IMG_6722And, finally, we didn’t link to this cuff much. 58% said to unhand the cuff.

Oh, June. You shoulda stuck to waitressing. For you were a stellar and unharried waitress with the patience of Job and the focus to remember what your tables wanted.

Did I ever tell you about the time I cried because the soup changed? Remind me.

Sometimes I have nightmares that I’m waitressing again. I’m at some soda gun going, How did I get back here?

Anyway. Thanks for participating, you 355 or so who did. Why didn’t you others? What a bunch of cranks. Perhaps the rest of you are men.

Yesterday, my boss, fmr., and I were discussing her photos on my blog, and the reactions we were getting to the clothes, and my boss’s boss, also fmr., happened upon us.

“I’d rather…go to the dentist, yes, go to the dentist, than have a bunch of people tell me what clothes to buy,” he said. Keep in mind this was the guy who gave me the eagle calendar. All of a sudden we gotta listen to THIS guy.

Boss, fmr. and I stared at him blankly.

“Well, then how do you shop?” we asked him. Pretty much at the same time, like those twins in The Shining.

“How you shop is, you decide you need something, and you go out and get it.”

We stared at him blankly some more. Kind of like those twins in The Shining. Still. Occasionally, after that stunning announcement, I’d kind of see my Eagles-Loving Former Boss’s Boss and then an elevator with blood pouring out of it would cross my vision.

“Now, what now?” I asked.

“If I’m shopping alone, I at least take a selfie in the dressing room and send it to someone for their opinion,” I told him.

“Yeah, of course,” agreed my boss, fmr.

“You’re kidding,” said my boss’s boss, former, lover of eagles. And their calendars.

Later, I asked Ned about this.

“How you shop is, you say, wow I’m out of blue jeans (Ned always calls them “blue jeans” like he’s Grampa Joe or whatever) and then you go out and get the same kind of blue jeans you’ve been buying since 9th grade,” said Ned.

Blood. Elevator. Somewhere in Florida an old man is having a vision under a painting of a naked woman.

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“How is it that we even exist on the same planet?” asked Former Boss of All Eagles.

Anyway, I gotta go. If I’m going to have a wine headache, I’m going to have it at work, where I can complain about it to the world at large.

Givingly,
Joon

IRL

I feel like no one reads me anymore.

I mean, “no one” is a stretch, but there are definitely fewer people around here, at least comment-wise. I know back in this not-blog’s heyday, like 2011-2012-ish, I’d get hundreds of comments, and around 2,000 readers a day.

But then sitemeter died, and we in the not-blogging world were all left bereft, because that thing was excellent. It told you how many people were on right then, it used individual IP addresses with cities, so I saw when Ned’s ex-girlfriend started reading me. I saw when NED was reading me.

It was a great stalking-who-stalks-me technique. But it died. And I’ve been without sitemeter for at least a year.

Then this year I switched over to WordPress, PressingWords, and the meter is either a lot more sensitive (like, if you look at me twice in one day, it knows your IP address and won’t count you as two readers) or else no one likes me anymore.

What do you think it is? Is it that no one blogs anymore, so they don’t come over here in hopes I come over there? Is it boring that I’m single and not all that ready to mingle? What gives, do you think?

This also leads me to to ask this question: If you know me  in real life, leave a comment today. I mean, really, leave a comment. You don’t have to leave an email address to leave a comment even though it says to.

I was wondering who, in real life, still reads me. Because when you write about your everyday life every day, it can be awkward with people who really know you.

Like, you meet up with a person and start telling one of your better stories, and you get the sense they want you to wrap it up because they’ve already read this. “Oh, did you read about this already?”

“Yeah.”

But see, how do you know? You can’t ask every person, “Do you read my stupid blog?” cause that seems like pressure.

But then, like, you’re talking to your grandmother or someone and they say, “Oh, you and Ned broke up?”

Or, “You have a dog?”

And it’s like, DO YOU NEVER READ ME OH MY GOD.

So, two things: Why is my blog boring now, or else why are my numbers down, and (2), if you know me, please really leave me a comment today. You don’t have to say your name, just how we know each other.

“We had a one-night-stand at Michigan State, June.” That sort of thing.

Meanwhile. And don’t you hate people who say, “Meanwhile, back at the ranch.” Oh, har har har. HARRRRR de HAR.

Meanwhile, back at my ranch-style house…IMG_2879.jpgI present you with Mega Melon. My lipstick, and also m’boobs.

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not in MUUUUUD

I was taking a selfie, when a little orange sprite caught my eye. She really is a little sprite. So full of the vim. Look at her already learning how to reject my advances.

I am the Harvey Weinstein of kitten.

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Every cat. Always, with that window to the kitchen.
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Where is the kitten? Has anyone seen the kitten?
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THERE she is! Say, guess who’s an asshole around kittens?

IMG_2859.JPGAnd because we don’t talk about animals enough here, someone else brought her dog to work. Nothing says “dedicated to her work June” more than someone trotting an animal past me.

BLUE EYE AND BROWN EYE!!!

IMG_2862.jpgI love you so BAD.

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Also, Faithful Reader BamaCarol sent me a leopard coat that happened to be on June Gardens’ Amazon Wishlist! Oh my god, I was so excited. I didn’t think anyone would actually GET it for me. It was a pipe dream! I was dreaming of pipes.

IMG_2871.jpgI better go. Last night, I closed myself in the bedroom to do my freelance work and hang with Jodie Foster, and maybe an hour in I thought, Hey, where IS that kitten, anyway?

She’d slipped under the door again. Was hanging with the big pets. I WAS IN THERE ALONE.

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heeee. jodeeee foster kind of a dik.

Talk to you later. And don’t forget to comment if you actually know me.

Really, how well can you know another person?

Deeply,

Juan

My 404 Not Found Error

IMG_E0891.JPGI stood in my backyard just now and watched several leaves fall from the branches of my tree and sway all the way to the ground. It was so pretty that I got the phone so I could show you, but of course once I got the damn phone, the leaves stayed tight.

weee not leaf-ing. heeeee!

Leaves are dicks. Nevertheless, I made a video, hoping to capture a leaf falling, like you’ve never seen that before, but instead my video is more let’s say meditative. Till Edsel. You’ll see.

I hate holding the phone vertically to take a video, but the first time when I went up then down to look at the dog, it got sideways.

I’ve been trying to be meditative lately. As you might know, I had jarring news last week, and you only know this because I wrote about it on the Facebooks, on a page called (Face)Book of June, and what was warm, what was really lovely of you, were the four people who joined the page, read my tale of sadness, then promptly quit it again.

So, no. No, I’m not adding anyone else to the page at this time. It was supposed to be for friends of this page. Friends. Of this page. So. I’m a tad wary right now.

But anyway, if you “Don’t have Facebook” (say, Madame 1800s, how are the 1800s going? Is there penicillin yet?) or whatever, suffice it to say that what happened was that I was on the mend, I was headed toward moving on from my last “relationship,” if you even want to call it that. I think I may just refer to that time as, “Those five years and 10 months that I was gravely mistaken,” but that takes too long.

Those years when I had Stockholm Syndrome?

My Not Found 404 Error?

Anyway. I thought I was moving on from it, whatever it was. It officially ended in 2015, but then it kept …hovering there, and I started it back up again last year at this time, then it ended again, badly, in December and I thought, Okay, this is really it.

But then it hovered again. And it’s hard to convince yourself a relationship is over when someone is constantly coming back, telling you he loves you.

Until you find out he doesn’t.

I found out some stuff, some you-were-not-loved information. And I wasn’t told because there was guilt or so much respect that anyone needed to come clean with me.

I found out because the other woman contacted me.

So.

I’ve been in a limbo for two years. A purgatory. And one thing I like about myself is my ability to not be dramatic about everything. But really, this half-broken-up shit is wearisome. So it’s kind of like I’m in a new breakup.

Again.

But since I’ve already spent much time grieving and mourning and feeling incredulous about everything, it’s moving along faster than you’d think, this time.

The point is, I’ve been trying to be meditative. When I walk Edsel at night, I’m paying attention to what I smell, what I see, what I hear. And it helps. Because otherwise I could be walking around with my brain spinning, as it has spun each day since I stupidly convinced myself I was in love, way back in March of 2012.

When your overwhelming feeling is more of anxiety that you adore this person and you worry they won’t adore you back? That’s really not so much love as a neurotic coupling. Must remember this.

You must remember this, a diss is still a diss. A lie is just a lie. The fundamental things apply, avoidant guy.

But I’m doing okay. I’m no longer in denial. Well. I’m 99% not in denial. I think I so dearly wanted some way that this would work out that I never quite accepted it was over.

Till now. I accept that it’s over. My plan is to never say one word to my 404 error ever again.

Oh! But while we’re on the topic of that (Face)Book of June page, I noticed yesterday a few people on there with the Facebook silhouette

Man_Silhouette.

And one person in particular with that image, and no friends, and the only info on her Facebook page was where she went to school. I say “she” but it’s a clearly fake, neutral name.

It worries me.

Look, I’m over there being me. My real name, my real details. I know this may come as a shock to you, but I’d rather tell that stuff to real people.

Anyway, this particular person has been on my readers-of-my-blog page for six years, so I didn’t just delete her right away. I messaged her. Said the stuff I just said to you, about real and so on, and how it worried me that she/he had no identity. “Is there anything you can tell me to put my mind at ease?” I asked.

No response.

So I removed him or her, and also someone who had no info on her page except a picture of the Verizon chick from the commercials. Then I announced on the page at large that if you had a fake profile, or no profile pic, I was going to have to remove you, because it makes me uncomfortable.

Here’s what happened.

“I have a picture of a flower, June! Don’t kick me off.”

“See, no,” I’d explain, “I’m saying if you have NO photo at all, and NO friends, and NO posts on your wall that I can see. That’s when I’m removing folks. Because how is it fair that you set up a fake account so you can lurk my life? No. This page is an exchange,” is what I said.

Then three comments later, I’d get, “I hate how I look, June, so I have a photo of a soccer ball. Please don’t take me off this page.”

“Yeah, see…” I’d say, and explain it all again.

Ten comments later, guess what.

So that was my day yesterday, until finally last night I was face-down on my living room floor, just typing “please scroll up” every 14 minutes or so.

Cats. You’re all cats. I herd cats in my real life, I herd cats in my online life. But I do heart you all, those of you who are real with me, I mean. I know I haven’t met most of you, but dear god, are you part of my every day.

I’ve watched you lose tons of weight, or a husband, or your jobs. I’ve seen your family members get sick or well. I’ve seen you have rotten days and great ones. And even though it’s weird, and impersonal, our relationship, it’s also sort of very personal.

Thank you to those of you who’ve been real, and have seen me through this stupid 404 error, for screaming at your computer DON’T HAVE DINNER WITH HIM, JOOOOB! all these years, thank you. I’ve tried to be as real as I can, and I appreciate how real you are all being, as well.

I guess that’s all I have to say today. My freelance work came early, goddammit, so I ended up having zero free days after all.

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no fotoz, pleez. bitz.

Edsel just let himself and all the cats in, which was convenient for me. Last night, late, there was another NextDoor about a “sweet cat” and I didn’t even have to open it. Of course I did.

“This sweet cat followed us home. Is he yours?”

Ima just brand that asshole with my address and a DON’T FEED. Also, “sweet cat.” Could it be possible that he has multiple personalities? Or maybe he just turns on the charm when a potential new food source rears its head.

I can’t solve every mystery today. I gotta just keep moving on.

Moving the hell on.

Mendingly,

June.

June picks a bad day to stop sniffing glue

Yesterday, I wrote about some, oh, personal stuff, and then I felt bad about it being so public, so I deleted this post and pasted it to (Face)Book of June, a secret page on Facebook.

For awhile, (Face)Book of June was just a closed group, meaning no one could wander over there and see all our top-secret thoughts. Sometimes it’s the only place we can safely complain about the people in our lives, as those people are often found on the REST of Facebook.

So, your drunk uncle is pontificating on your Facebook wall? You get to come over to (Face)Book of June to kvetch. He can’t see it!

But then we made it a secret group, which means you can’t even search for it. “CAN MY UNCLE SEE I COMPLAINED ABOUT HIM?”

No. He can’t even see this page exists.

We’ve waffled with it being closed/secret for awhile, and I just couldn’t recall our current status when I posted yesterday morning, and I had to go.

So when I deleted the post here (and yes, thank you all [all] [allllll] for telling me the email subscribers could still read it. That’s fine. I just didn’t want the…person at hand to read it, nor that person’s people, and if they’re weird enough to email subscribe to me, then that’s their problem), and announced it could be read on (Face)Book of June, I then screamed over to the courthouse for jury duty, a place that absolutely 100% totally for sure forbids any phone use. I guess I assumed everyone knew that, but apparently not.

In the mid-morning, they give you a break, so I turned on my phone and oh my god.

JUNE! I CAN’T FIND YOUR POST!

IT’S NOT THERE, JUNE!

WHERE IS FACEBOOK OF JUNE, JOOOOON?

I had written that you should EITHER look for (Face)Book of June (and say that one more time) OR FRIEND REQUEST ME, but no one got to phase two. Instead they contacted me and bellowed.

So here’s the story. I accepted friend requests and added folks to the secret group as much as I could yesterday. There are still some outstanding and I will get to those as soon as I can. But I am vetting you first.

But if you have no profile pic, or a picture of the sky or something, and you have 0–10 friends, you ain’t gettin’ in. If you aren’t a real person who’s on Facebook already, I do not trust that you are joining this group as “Oh, I’d love to add Book of June shenanigans to my already rewarding Facebook time.” I think instead you may be a hater, or a lurker, or just someone nefarious who is going to sell us Ray-Bans.

Also, if you “can’t figure out Facebook” or how to add a friend or whatever, I am sorry, dude, but I picked a bad day to bring all this on myself, and you’re gonna have to adult and figure it out on your own. I’m just a blogger with a full-time job and a murder trial on her hands. I am not the IT department or a life coach.

Oh! And also! If you were a member before and you left, you can’t get back on. I can’t add you, and since it’s secret you can’t request to be added. Sorry. That was a snafu I didn’t know about. Also, why’d you leave, ass lips?

Thank god I just spent 600 words on that riveting topic.

The other news is, I am done with jury duty. And yes, it was a murder trial. I was excused because I just don’t believe in the death penalty. But I was in that courtroom all day Monday through Wednesday, and I heard a lot, and I am glad I didn’t end up being on that trial. I think I’d have ended up traumatized, and I just accidentally wrote “Neded up being traumatized” and thank you, Freud.

I was done around 4:00, so I didn’t head to work, I just came home and sat here, rather drained. It was a lot. I can’t imagine the toll it will take on the actual jurors.

IMG_0734.JPGEventually, I got up to walk the cur, which always makes me feel better unless her eats a baby or whatever.

IMG_0736June. Now with less drainage.

IMG_0726.JPGIt really alleviated my stress when I shot the dog. Just what the doctor ordered.

(He and Tallulah were big on rubbing their faces on the ground when that Gentle Leader is on. I know that thing must be annoying. But please note: If he’d had it on that one day, he’d never have gotten loose to attack that dog, so.)

IMG_0746.JPGAlso, do you have these all over yonder in your town? These are bikes anyone can use; you just have to scan something or other with your phone, and they charge you. I was tempted to put Eds in the basket and Wicked Witch all through the neighborhood.

IT PUTS THE CANINE IN THE BASKET.

OR ELSE IT GETS THE HOSE AGAIN.

Thanks, June. It’s been too long since you’ve needlessly referenced a film. One of the same five films you ever reference.

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When I got home, I texted with my pal Hamlet, which resulted in me giggling like an idiot. Murder, she texted! Heeeeee!

I finally get to go to real work today, and I am glad. First of all, driving downtown is a pain in the ass. Parking downtown is worse. Having to be in a courtroom and not snack or pee when you feel like it is a real pain, as well.

I’d better get in the shower, and I know the idea of me naked has you all twitterpated now, and I’m sorry to get you in a lather. See what I did, there?

Your Facebook friend, unless you have a scammy profile,

June

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.

6a00e54f9367fb8834019101fdbefe970c-800wi
(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.

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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.

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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.

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(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.

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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.

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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.

Heh.

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.

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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,

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June

Age/state/sex/kids/sass/crunch.

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.

Hunh.

"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.

Bah.

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?"

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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.

Relaxedly,

June

Datedly,

June

Gabrielly,

June

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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…"

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(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.

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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.

XO,

June the puss

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

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Served by Mr. Salty and Buddha

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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.

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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.

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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.

XO,

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.

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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?

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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.

Luff,

Joooooon

June will not say something tired like haters gonna hate.

Hurr

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,

June

June’s end-of-the-year video

In order to avoid proofreading my statistics textbook, I made this end-of-year video this weekend, as I am wont to do at the end of every year. But I just noticed 24 people have already looked at it on YouTube, so since the secret's out, here it is. I'll show this again on the 31st.

 

Whether you were in this video or not, thank you for being a part of my dumb, wonderful life this year.

Luff,

JOOOOON

Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks. Does Yours?

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Angry selfie

I'm living on the idea that you're regularly consulting your June's Calendar of Events, and therefore you are completely aware that all month, I've been staying at Kaye's house, and Kaye has, in fact, not been here. Unless you think all this month she's just been really quiet and unobtrusive. In her own home.

But Sunday night she returned. It was the Return of the Kaye, if you will, and we spent several hours catching up on everything. "You and Ned still broken up?" "Yes." "You sleeping with anyone new?" "No."

Somehow we made that conversation last three hours. As girls do.

Before she got here, I got her new toilet paper, a bottle of wine, some flowers and a whole freezer full of fish sticks. Girlfriend and I have a fish sticks bond. She ate some while we talked last night. "I've gained weight since I went out of town," she groused, gesturing with a fish stick. "I really am trying to do better."

"You wanna do Tracy Anderson with me?" I asked, brightening. "I've been trying to do her every night!"

Hoooo-haaaaaa.

"Okay," she said, and we made a plan to get together tonight (in your June's Calendar of Events, please note I'm blogging at night for the next 21 days–so I'm writing this Monday night–and meditating in the morning, with Oprah and Deepak) (because I'm deep. Ak.).

When I burst in today, I shouted into the house, and guess who's delighted I'm here, "YOU READY TO DO SOME TRACY!?!"

"YEAH!" screamed Kaye from her room, strapping on her sports bra.

Here's how the next 50 minutes went for Kaye.

Kaye: Here we go!

Kaye: Oh, wow, is she…? Okay. Wow.

Kaye: Jesus.

Kaye: All the things hurt. All the things.

Kaye: JESUS.

Kaye: She can't…seriously? She can't be serious.

Kaye: FUCK YOU, TRACY ANDERSON.

Kaye: I let you stay in my house, and this is what you DO to me? FUCK YOU, JUNE GARDENS.

Kaye: I'm never doing that again.

So I feel like that went well. I feel like Kaye has become a real Tracy fan, and will likely be flying to LA for some personal Tracy training soon.

While we're up…

June's Coworkers' Senior Picture Poses

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TinaDoris gave us the posing-at-prom kind of a look, and really, why are high school poses so ludicrous? Who decided, hey you're in high school, you must do all sorts of unnatural things for the camera. Get down on one knee.

And yes, I am aware TinaDoris had a baby three months ago. I am aware she's back to being thinner than me. In fact, I'd wager her entire pregnancy she remained thinner than me. I wish you could see me now, frowning and clasping my hands in front of me.

Also, somehow at work we got on the topic of your favorite smells. What's the best smell in the world to you? Have we discussed this before? If so, we'll discuss it again. We may have discussed it back in Old School Bye Bye Pie days, with Matze and Siren and Juice. Now we'll discuss it again with PSS and Megsie.

Sometimes I'll look back on old posts and see a commenter name I used to see all the time, and it'll be, like, where'd that person run off to? What happened? We need an investigative journalist to find out for us. Then every once in awhile an old commenter will come back, and we'll all scream, "STEVE'S WIFE BETH!" and they disappear again.

Commenter relations are a funny thing. Not as funny as Kaye trying to muddle through Tracy Anderson, but still.

Oh, the point is, I love the smell of right before it's gonna rain.

Vick's Vapo-Rub. LOVE that smell.

Tallulah. I know I shouldn't, but oh, I love her houndy smell. Edsel never has a smell. I mean, I'm sure he does cause he's a dog, but not the way Lu is all, Lu in ruum. Can you smell what the Lu be cookin'?

When you're still in bed, but you can smell someone made coffee.

Patchouli. I know people feel strongly about it, but it reminds me of boys I dated in college. It makes me think of beer-soaked sex on mattresses that were on the floor. Remember when that was perfectly acceptable, the man with a mattress right on the floor?

So, tell me yours. In the meantime, Ima go online and get a big Tracy Anderson poster for Kaye.

Fuck you, June Gardens-ly,

June

She wants to TALK, June said, like that was the worst thing on earth.

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The controversial paper towels.

I cannot believe how long you people can discuss a thing, in the comments. Anyway, here are the pretty paper towels Ned bought to seduce the ladies, and it's workin' on ME anyway, because every spill I'm all, DANG! Looky here at these paper towels-es.

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How many paper towels can you USE in a two-day stay? Apparently you've never had five pets. Look at Iris's tawny nose. Don't you just want to boop it? She sincerely hopes you do. No, really.

Ned usually fed everyone in the morning, because he got up first, but when he's gone, or when, say, we're broken up and I'm homeless and he's out of town and I have to come back to my former home and care for my own equally homeless pets–let's just throw that out there as a possible scenario–here is the routine.

First, you get NedKitty's giant bag of old-lady cat food out, which someone has chewed a HOLE in, so you have to lift it horizontally like you're saving an unconscious maiden. Then you have to find a way to awkwardly get kibble in her old-lady bowl without spilling it everywhere. Shut her door.

Desperately attempt to get the gray cat heads out the way so you can pour the prime-of-life food into the other cats' bowls. Spill most of it on the floor because they refuse to budge, because GOD FORBID the other cat starts eating first.

Give them new water, because Tallulah's drunk all of theirs just for spite.

Go downstairs, where the dogs are bucking like broncos because IT BE FOOD. OH THANK EDSUL GOD, IT BE FOOD. Worree we never eeet agains.

Endure scratches to all parts thanks to dog claws and bronco activity. Dump in brown kibble, and today might be another day to say Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss. I don't even LIKE The Who. I blame Marvin for that lyric being in my head where geometry could be instead.

Refill already totally full water dish, because cat water be supreeme.

Schlep plastic bag upstairs, and why Ned insists on leaving them downstairs is beyond me. Walk into NedKitty's room, where most of her food is uneaten. Change her untouched water (the dogs don't dare) and scoop all 3949392 litter boxes. When you're done, note that gray prime-of-life cats are eating old-lady food, and NedKitty is at their dish, eating prime-of-life food.

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Let dogs out, realize it's 20 minutes that you've been up and you still haven't peed. Silently envy those cold, I-hate-pets people.

I just noticed for the first time that the basement door gets a utilitarian black porcelain doorknob and not a fancy crystal one like the rest of the house. It's like the door is warning you: Utilitarian stuff down here. Dank necessary stuff such as boiler. Don't get excited.

Ah, this house. Ima miss this house.

Tree
Here's my tree again. Remember two weeks ago when I showed it to you? Aw. I love this tree. I wanted to see it every fall.

Sigh.

Also, tell me if I'm being a bitch. I mean, I probably am, but why is this happening?

You know I have a blog, right? And mostly it's read by people I don't know. Now that I have drama, my numbers are back up to, like, 2,800 people a day.

Heyyyyyy! Hiiiiii! Hi, everyone who loves it when I have PAIN.

The point is, there are easily–easily!!–100 people I know in real life who also read this blog. Friends I've had forever, classmates from 1979, relatives. Whatever.

For some reason, it annoys the SHIT out of me when people I know in real life email me to discuss something I said in my blog. Can you tell me why? Other than that I am the world's most irritable person? The thing that bugs me MOST is the questions. "Where did you get that necklace?" "Oh, which restaurant was that?"

I mean, these seem like perfectly benign Qs. And yet I get so annoyed. What is wrong with me?

The only things I can think of are:

  • I have a blog that has a comment section. Hey, maybe this could be addressed in the comments.
  • Maybe I feel like, hey. Already WROTE what I want to write about today. Really don't want to say more on it. Could we just discuss life like normal people?
  • I am just a bitch.

Remember some years ago, when my poor mother and I went to her then cabin in northern Michigan? I loved that place. I really abhor the phrase "happy place," but that was my, you know, place. Where I felt happy. Anyway, we were there with a bunch of relatives, including my cousin Big June, who's my mother's age and who is an only child such as my own self.

…Wait. I just found it the post where I wrote about this. It's actually from my OLD blog, Bye Bye Buy, and this scene happened eight years ago. Oh my god. Oh Edzul god. Here…

My mother has a cousin, also an only child, who has the same name as me. Ever since I was born, this poor cousin has been "Big June" while I got to be "Little June." If I were her I would hate me.

At any rate, Big June and her husband also came to said cabin on Saturday. They walked in. We said our hellos. The men went outside to move a boat or some manly thing. Big June found a photo album and started looking at it. I was maybe seven feet away, painting my paint-by-numbers kit. For a lovely three minutes, we did this.

Me: [Paint paint paint.]
Big June: [Peruse peruse peruse.]

All of a sudden my mother came in, chattering like a magpie. "Have you two looked at that lake? And those colors! You should have seen it this morning! It looked like the trees were on fire! Oh!"

Me: […paint paint paint…]
Big June: […peruse peruse peruse…]

After a minute or two, my mother came back in, this time from the kitchen. "We have pie! Do either of you want pie!? It's blueberry! It has real filling! There's coffee! Do you want to walk down by that lake? I'll be outside if you want to walk down there."

She left, and after a while Big June, never looking up from her album, said, "She wants to talk."

"I KNOW," I agreed heavily. We were appalled at this idea. It was as if my poor mother, who just wanted to converse with her out-of-town daughter and her guest, had suggested we all strip naked, make bikinis out of metal Jello molds, and plunge into the icy lake.

"I think this is an only child thing," I told Big June. My mother comes from a loud family of five.

So, is that it? Are we happy to be silent together because we have no siblings? Are there people from giant loud families who also enjoy their quiet time? Does quiet time equal "we aren't having fun" for you? Or are Big June and I just huge bitches?

The point is, my mother left a comment: "Yes, you're just big bitches." Probably the same applies here. But really, I want to make sense of it. Why does it bug me so much? It happens every day, for sure, and sometimes several times a day if I've blogged about something controversial such as paper towel preferences. Why does something that seems perfectly okay to do annoy me so bad?

I also get annoyed when people I know refer to my blog as "the blog," as though no other one exists. I hated "the wedding," too. Like I was Princess Diana or something. The baby. Also irks.

Why does anyone like me?

Okay, I gotta go. Am stupidly excited about six-minute commute. The commute from Kaye's house blows. This one is so simple and teensy.

Your simple, teensy pal,

JUUUUUUUNE

In which June starts comparing herself to Frida, which means she has really lost it

A faithful reader sent me a poem that allegedly Frida Kahlo wrote–I did not confirm that part. Here:

"leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier maché puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street."

I think Frida Kahlo broke up with and got back together with Diego Rivera 400 times. That doesn't mean I don't still love that poem.

What was so great about Diego Rivera? I mean, sure, Frida Kahlo could have sauntered on over to the waxing salon a little more often than she did, but she was sexy. Diego Rivera looks like some schlub. He looks like when your friend invites you over and her drunk uncle hits on you. Diego Rivera's that guy.

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He kind of looks like someone who'd go over to the young girl's house on To Catch a Predator. "I'm just making some sweet tea."

Frida Kahlo looks exactly like the pictures she painted of herself. Which reminds me that yesterday at work, we were all taking a walk and discussing what our favorite Halloween costume had been in our childhood, and my one coworker, Thousandman, was answering. Another, younger coworker said, "Oh, cool. Are there any tintypes from that? Did your family commission a Rembrandt of it?"

See, that there is hilarious. "He painted a selfie in oil," I said, which was called a self-portrait because we weren't idiots then. I wonder what ancient Kardashians were like. I wonder if they were annoying through the annals of history, too, with all the self-portraits. The oilies.

"He saved the cave drawing of his Halloween costume," I said, before remembering that Thousandman is, in fact, younger than me. So.

I was talking with another coworker about how I could be even more pathetic right now. I told him about going to bed with all my clothes on, at 6 p.m., the other night."Did you keep your shoes on? That makes it much sadder."

I vowed to do that in the future. Then we discussed how I could go to bed at 6, then roll out in the morning and come to work that way. Or, even more dramatic, I could come to work in my robe.

My cousin had something awful happen to her, way more awful than a breakup with someone you still live with, which you have to admit is right up there on the awful scale. Anyway, she vowed to get up, get dressed and do her makeup every day, no matter what. I have always been inspired by that, so I guess I'll stop blopping now and get dressed and put on makeup that I can cry off later.

Self-portraitly,

Joooon. The alone Joooon. June. Now in single servings.

Your rotten personalities revealed

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It is almost 10 o'clock at night and I'm at work, still. I'll be here forever, I am not even kidding you, so I decided to tally and report your answers from the personality test I gave you while I'm waiting for more work to come.

So, if you weren't here yesterday, I gave a personality test. Go look at yesterday's post where I link to the damn test three freaking times. Say, did I mention my sparkling mood because I'm on hour 14 of work with no end in sight?

The point is, there are nine different personalities you could have.

The test also tells you what wings you are, apparently, which I guess is like having a rising sign or something. Right now I'm bitchy with an exhausted rising sign. I wonder if this post will even make sense?

I did not record what your damn wings were. I did, however, figure out how many of you were which personality minus your wings. Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings. Did I mention I wonder if this whole post is even gonna make sense?

My coworker who is also here all night took these nice shots. We aren't punchy at all. No, sir. Here are the nine personalities and the results from our taking the test.

Perfectionist
Type 1: The Reformer, the Idealist. 3% of you were this type. The reformer is principled, perfectionistic, self-controlled. Guess what type I am not.

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Type 2: The Helper, the Advocate. 15% of you were this type. Demonstrative, generous, people-pleasing.

The other stupid thing about this personality test is that each type had, like, 107 names for it. But as I said, there are nine personalities, and you should've gotten a number for your type, like you're a number two. heheheheheheheee. Hey, guess who is tired? So even though there are 47 names for number two, you're still nmber two. Every time I say that I giggle more.

Oh, and that's my tenant in the above photo, who also works here, and is also here all night. That's a piece of leftover bread I had from when they gave us dinner. What a helper I am.

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Type 3: The Achiever, The Professional. 4% of you were type 3. Success-oriented, pragmatic, driven, image-conscious. Guess what type I also am not.

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Type 4: The Bohemian, The Individualist. 13% of you were this type. Expressive, dramatic, self-absorbed, tempermental. Say, GUESS WHICH TYPE I AM!

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Type 5: The Investigator, The Iconoclast. 11% of you were this type. Perceptive, innovative, secretive.

In case you're wondering, Did June love herself while she thought up these poses? The answer is yes. So much, yes.

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Type 6: The Loyal Friend, The Loyal Skeptic, The Defender. A shocking 36% of you were this type. I wonder if it's because you're loyal. "Well, here I am again. Gotta read this blog. Cause I'm loyal." You know, my tenant and I look like a tarot card in this one. The bread one, too.

Anyway, this type is committed, security-oriented, engaging, responsible, and anxious.

Calm down.

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Type 7: The Enthusiast. 4% of you were this type, including Ned. This type is busy, fun-loving, scattered.

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Type 8: The Challenger, The Bear. Only 2% of you were this type, including my mother. You have to admit my tenant is really good at the mugging for the camera. Also, this is just the kind of landlady I am.

Type 8 is powerful, dominating, willful and confrontational. Go, mom. Now she's gonna yell at me.

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Type 9: The Peacemaker, The Dreamer, The Referee. 12% of you. This type is easygoing, self-effacing, and agreeable. I hope the owner of these flowers I stole off her desk to take this shot is a Type 9.

So there you have it! Your personality types revealed! Say, did I mention I'm still at work? And that it's the middle of the night? And that I'm tired? Why don't you Helpers come down here and work with me?

Dramatically,

June

Principled, Purposeful, Self-Controlled, and Perfectionistic – See more at: https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-descriptions/#sthash.5d5d2oGd.dpuf
Principled, Purposeful, Self-Controlled, and Perfectionistic – See more at: https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-1#sthash.il67OWTz.dpuf