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.

Photo on 3-28-16 at 8.18 AM #2

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.

Photo on 12-31-14 at 7.59 PM #4

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.

IMG_7071 IMG_7072 IMG_7077 IMG_7079 IMG_7076
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.

Photo on 12-31-15 at 8.10 AM #2
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,


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.



Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks. Does Yours?

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!"


"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: 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


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,


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

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.


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.


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.

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.


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,