June pops her head out of the cupboard (TM Dick Whitman’s mom. RIP)

A few things. A few matters. Some housekeeping. Don’t you fucking hate people who say that? Is there anything you want to read less about than someone’s “housekeeping matters”? I mean, other than how little you want to hear the “let me back up” details.

I didn’t get to go to my work Christmas party. I had to work, like I was Cinderella. And all the powers that be said to me,”You’d better not stay here and work. We’d better see you at that Christmas party.” But I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I really had to get this thing done or it wouldn’t get done on time. I have to work on it today, too.

Then the next day I felt very sad for self, looking at people’s Instagram shots of our very lovely party at the lovely country club.

Alo, regarding my windfall from our last conversation/poll, June did something responsible.

[I’ll give everyone a moment to gather him- or herself.] [Like there are any hims reading this.]

When I get paid on the 1st, I use that paycheck to cover utilities, credit cards (fmr., as the only credit card I have now is the vet one, which, hello, keeps having a balance and why? Why, one wonders), the car payment, bullshit like that.

And why do I have to pay for electricity AND gas? Aren’t they the same thing, practically? Annoying.

Then the 15th, I pay my mortgage. Technically it’s due on the 1st, but they give you a “grace period” of the 16th. Why not just say it’s due on the 16th, then? I don’t know.

Anyway, I refinanced m’car recently, and they charge me less if I let them do an automatic withdrawal, and they insist on doing that on the 15th. So for several sad months now, my car payment and my mortgage come out of the same paycheck, leaving me with about 11 dollars that pay period.

So because I was flush this time? I paid my mortgage AND all my regular bills, to get myself out of that cycle, and now the first of the month will be sort of sad, but the 15th will always be really good, so I can save


save some of that flush-15th money to tide me over for the billsy 1st.

God, June, tell us more. Tell us about a couple housekeeping matters.


IMG_E1922.JPGWho sent me this? Weeks ago this was on my doorstep, with treats for the pets and so on, and it was lovely, but no note.

IMG_2392.jpgAnd who sent me this? Came with a note about being glad I had a cyst, but no signature.

Whoever you anonymous gift-givers are, thank you!!

And finally, last night I started my end-of-the-year video, and even though I have 28 more days of this year, I am presenting it to you now, because really, what is going to possibly happen that I’ll need to include it in my veeeedeo? Hmmm? What?

Every time there’s a picture of a table, it’s from yet another date I went on that proved unfruitful. If you wanna see it full screen, click on the video’s title, and it’ll take you to YouTube where you can choose “full screen” in the lower right.


Sighs matter,



This morning, I spilled coffee grounds all over yonder, WHICH DELIGHTED ME, and I was late getting Edsel’s food. I messed up his skedge. This discombobulated him, as did me saying thing like “skedge,” so he wandered around the cats’ dishes, a little lost, while he waited. Continue reading “Skedge”

She ran callin’ fireflies

Because the first thing they teach you in kitten school is How to be a Pain in the Ass, my cats all want to go out in the morning, but they all want to go out at different times. Each one saunters to the door, and even if the back door is open and it’s just the screen door, the girl cats mew piteously till I open it. Continue reading “She ran callin’ fireflies”

The many photography talents o’June

Yesterday I asked you for stuff to blog about at lunchtime, but then lunchtime neared and someone I freelance for said, "Can you do this really fast?" and I said, "$ure," and who's sick of my dollar signs for Ses? S's? Sszez?

So that ruined that lunch hour, and now I can't remember what all you wanted me to blog about anyway. Aren't you glad I asked?

I'm all settled into my new space at work, and I'm hoping maybe my new space will bring me luck, and my whole life will fall into place, and no longer will I be haunted by bad relationships, bad debt and poor meal choices. Or, I could just be working one floor up and everything will stay the same. How can you know? Behold action shots of my coworker Molly headed toward me, in our new space, to go for a walk.

IMG_6026 IMG_6028 IMG_6029
I realize that every photo I take looking that way is going to be a little whatever that is. Sort of too light? I don't know. On the other side of me is the office of my boss, fmr., and that's it, so she'd better be interesting up in there, because I'll be shooting that way a lot.

I also realize the best part of life is the thinner slice, and it don't count for much.

Please, god, take Air Supply out of my head. I don't ask much. But I know I love you. And that may be all I need to learn.


This creature. If you wanted to know the secret to my incredible success as a blogger, which is like incredible success as a hoop-skirt maker, so antiquated is that idea, what I do is take photos during the day, and then load the ones I like to my desktop. Then when I'm writing, I look at them to see if they jog any memories about things I wanna tell you at all, but seeing as I don't jog…

Anyway, this photo reminded me of what a court jester this cat is. Catten. He's 8 months old now. I just saw someone on social media refer to her child as 25 months, and that is when I got in my car, drove to her state, and bludgeoned her clean in the head with my dick.


Anyway, during my most productive lunch, which included Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee, and see above ref to my stupid life, I was heard a galumphing noise above me. "That goddamn cat is on the roof again," I thought, and at this point it's just a regular part of my day, and probably the neighbors are all, "That panther is on June's roof again." Or maybe at this point I'm just The Cat Lady. Maybe I've graduated to being neighborhood cat lady.



I tried to get him to come down, and he was all, Bitz, day just starteeng for Steelleee, so I left his ass up there. FINE, then, I said. You know how it goes when I do that.


As soon as I got home yesterday, he ran down the driveway and jumped in my car. The only other times he's been in my car was to go to the vet, so I've no idea why he just leaped in there like he knew it'd be a good time. But leap he did. I had to beg him to get out of there so I could go inside and revisit Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee. Why the Ar? Is that, like, a family name? "Yes-a! I-a come from-a long-a line of chefs named Ar! Enjoy-a my Beefaroni-a!"


That's kind of a Hitler mustache he's got going on, there. But I enjoy the jaunty angle of his hat. I wonder what the asterisk is for? Chef Boy-ar-dee, but were afraid to ask.

Hey, June, how about you try to make sense?


Speaking of homoerotic, the important news is that I went to the movies last night at my old theater, because of course Top Gun was playing. I'd never seen Top Gun, and before you get all, "Really?" just ask yourself, does June seem like the kind of person who schlepped out to the theater in 1984 and got herself a ticket to Top Gun?

So June schlepped to the theater in 2017 and got herself a ticket to Top Gun, and it probably cost more today than it did in 1984.

Turns out, Top Gun is a stupid movie, and Meg Ryan had herself some '80s hair, man, and also, I wish they could have played Highway to the Danger Zone maybe a little more often. No, really. And also, I didn't hear enough of Take My Breath Away.

They were all, Say, let's make a movie, spend 9 million dollars on airplane scenes, and select two songs to feature throughout.

Anyway, now I can say I've seen Top Gun. Also, I can say that they named the one pilot of color "Sundown," so. Go, 1984.

The further on the edge, the hotter the intensity,


P.S. I just heard a ruckus behind me and saw this out the door.


Beelzebub has a devil cat put aside for me

In case you've been on pins and also the needles re my sore throat, I seem to have rallied. Because I'm tough. But I'm fair.

Also, yesterday I started a new headache study, which I can tell you very little about, so you can ask all the goddamn questions you want, but I'm not gonna answer them, as I cannot. Not allowed. It will be for approximately 10 weeks, I think, and yesterday I had to go in there for the preliminary stuff, which included 94593939300303 questions on top of the 97,000 they already asked me over the phone.

Then? After the Qs and my vitals were taken? (STILL FAT. WHAT THE HELL.) (Says the woman who noted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts in the machine, but who had no cash other than a $5, so she went to the healthy vending machine, which takes five-dollar bills, bought something for a dollar, took the change and went to the UNhealthy vending machine, bought the Pop-Tarts and then ate both items. WHAT A MYSTERY.)

Anyway, after the Qs and my vitals, they had to do this pain threshold thing. I am not making this up. I forget the fancy term they used for it, but basically they inflicted pain on me ("How, June?" Sigh.) for AN HOUR and I had to tell them how much it hurt and so on.

I was really scared of that part. I mean, who wouldn't be? I kept picturing Wesley in the Pit of Despair (aka my head) or whatever it was called in Princess Bride, where he cries at the end.

So, I entered the room for the torture, and? It wasn't that bad.

I think I might have a high tolerance to pain. I know I don't SEEM like the type who would, but I think I do. The guy inFLICTing the pain wouldn't tell me if I had a high tolerance, but I noticed him watching me sometimes, like, seriously? Is she just, like, fine with this?

I might get this from my mother, who no matter what she has done, always says, "It didn't really hurt." She said that about CHILDBIRTH. "It didn't really hurt."

IMG_5525 IMG_5526
The place they're doing the headache study is the same place Dick Whitman works, and after I went to the coffee shop Dick Whitman always goes to, where I had a quiche (see above ref to fat) that Edsel just finished and a decaf latte, because I'm a laugh riot. What I'm saying to you is I was Dick Whitman for a day.

Dear Alexes and Everyone Else I Know Who Works in Winston-Salem: I did not know how I'd react to the torture portion of the thing, so I made no plans to get up with anyone and anyway you were all at work it was the middle of the day so get off my back.

Dear Everyone in W-S Who Still Won't Let It Drop: The rest of the study is on weeknights from 6–8, and then I have to drive all the way back to Greensboro after, so no. Let's NOT meet up after. I have a dog. A dog who never wants to go outside, but still.

Am I the least-sociable person you've never met?


The other exciting news is the receptionist gave me these flowers from her yard. She said they're all blooming early and they'll freeze this weekend, poor things, so she's bringing them in to enjoy them as much as she can.

I just heard that damn demon Steely Dan jump onto the roof. Goddammit. Hang on.

IMG_5529 IMG_5533 IMG_5534 IMG_5535
edz do not get why steelee go owtside when it perfectlee comfterbul in heer.

The good news is that if you call him, he's willing to jump right off and come inside. Be sure to ask me how he does it again. I DON'T KNOW. That cat is pure evil, y'all. But then when he's inside, he's all cuddly and on your lap and purring and acting sweet. Till he deceives you again.


Here's my tenant, fmr., forcing him into submission just the other night, when she stopped by to torture herself with interval training again. That's what they should have done at my study–just make me do interval training for an hour. Look at SD's fine expression. Soon he'll devise a way to disappear when he's being held, like Clarence when Burt the Cop had him in It's a Wonderful Life.

Speaking of old movies, last night I took my own self to my old theater, for a change, as they were showing Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. As you know (Big Book of June Events), my technique for avoiding Ned at the theater is to get there early, a thing he never does, and get a seat far from our usual seats in the balcony.

I got there at, like, quarter till last night, but Bohemian Rhapsody was playing on my radio, so I sat in my car to hear the rest of it, and as I was Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for meee, for meeeeeee!ing, I see a car pull in, and I was all, Is that…? Goddammit.

He pulled in right next to me. I still waited for my song to end, but he waited too. "I could've sung the rest of it for you. I know how it goes," said Ned. I reminded him that he's no Freddie Mercury. The good news is, Ned donated to the theater and therefore has a pass to get in, so it was Guess Who Got in For Free night for old June, here.

The event went without incident, and I love the idea that anyone could be upset that their daughter is marrying a famous elegant doctor from Yale because maybe he's more tan than you. Also, Katharine Hepburn was really very beautiful. ALSO, the maid in that movie is Weezy Jefferson. Also also, I can't THINK what that house in San Francisco would cost today. Like, at least three billion dollars.

I'd better go get ready for work, as I suddenly have an overwhelming amount to do there, and it might even interfere with me telling just everyone about the torture I endured yesterday, which I will not at all exaggerate for dramatic effect.

No one at work likes me.



Terror, or a mild annoyance, in the night


It was 4:00 in the morning, and I'd been half-awake already for whatever reason.

…did I just…did I just hear my name? I waited a second. Nothing. Maybe a cat moaned in a way that sounded like "June." As they do.


"Grrrrrrr," growled Edsel, quietly. His lifted his head from where it has been on my hip. My heart started to pound. Why is everything scarier in the middle of the night? You get diarrhea during the day, it's an inconvenience. You wake up with it, you feel all panicky. Which is what I was feeling then. It was a man's voice, sounded like an older white guy, no one I recognized.

I'd been plugging my phone into the computer at night and using my regular, old-fashioned alarm clock instead, but last night I just happened to bring my phone with me; it was right next to the bed. Should I call 9-1-1? Instead I crept out of bed like I was miming, and I really need to get over that line, minced to the doors and made sure they were locked. Then I decided to look carefully out the window.

I have 97 pair of glasses and I could not find one goddamn pair. Every pair I picked up in the dark were reading glasses, and any time I need reading glasses I can only find real glasses. Finally, yes! There were some real glasses.

First I tried to look through the peephole, and has that ever served you even once? That thing is useless. So then I mince mince minced to the window.

"Jude! Judy!"

Was he saying June or Jude? And for everyone in the know, he was using my real name, and I'm changing all these stupid names to fit this blog. Is there even one person left out there who does not know my real name at this point? I am a mystery. I am Mona Lisa.


See. I was trying to look mysterious, but instead I look fairly deranged. Also, now that you've seen my picture, you know that I lived through this story and I just took all the tension out of it.

So there I was, at the window, peering through it so teensily, lifting the blind so subtly, that right then I knew. I'd turned into my other grandmother. She used to listen to the police radio, and then if anything was happening nearby, she'd race arthritically to the window and peer around the curtain, as if it were going to be happening right outside her living room.

Anyway, I saw nothing, but Edsel kept going with his low grrrr, so I knew the idiot was still out there. I couldn't tell, as quiet as it was outside, if he was in my yard or across the street. Then I heard a loud boom.

Oh my god. Was that a gunshot?

I called the police. I turned into my old neighbor Alicia (once I was done turning into Gramma). I called the police on his ass.

How often have you called 9-1-1 in your life? Because I feel like I call them inordinate amounts of time. "(Hey, June. 9-1-1. How's Steely Dan?")

I told them the sitch, and as I was telling it I heard that idiot guy again, and this time he was clearly not saying my name. And since he was still out there, I assumed he hadn't shot anyone. I had, however, looked at my phone when I heard the loud noise, in case the police needed to know right when it happened. Once, Nora Ephron was in her kitchen, and she heard a scream, and looked at the clock just in case, and it turns out it WAS a murder, and she was able to say, "I heard it at 1:37 p.m."

I was lying there actually trying to make myself go back to sleep when I heard a small dog yap-yap-yapping. I went back to my Gramma's School of Peering, and lifted one iota of the blind, and there were the police, talking to a man with a tiny dog. The police eventually drove off and the man walked away.

My theory is it was Buffalo Bill with Precious, which is only funny if you're obsessed with Silence of the Lambs as I am. Really, we should have a whole June Movie Film Festival, where we all rent my favorite films and come back to discuss them after. Oh my god I love that idea.

When Harry Met Sally

Annie Hall


Silence of the Lambs

It's a Wonderful Life

And as a bonus, Say Anything

The point is, I have no idea why that idiot was shouting outside my neighbor's house, and I guess I never will. But it was a delightful way to be awake from 4:00 till 5:00 today.


June! Judy! Jude!

Working and praying and living and dying in this town

June reflects. Cause she's shiny.

There's a fine line between telling the truth as much as you can on a blog, which I try to do, and exposing someone else's story. Just because you choose to tell all your shit on a website (narcissistic disorder) doesn't mean everyone else in your life is signed on.

So yesterday I got on here and told you how–surprise!!!–my reuniting with Ned did not stick. And I told you a little about it, but then I went to work and felt like I had to take a Silkwood shower. As much as I'm not fond of Ned right now, I didn't feel good about exposing our terrible fight to the world.

So I took the post down. And I got on Pie on the Face (on Facebook) and talked to you about it. And remember, we decided to keep that discussion over there.


So, yeah. And the thing is, when we first decided to do 90 days, same as cash, I at first thought, "This is insane. I'm just prolonging my Ned agony. This'll never work." But then we spent all this time together, and it was great, and our vacation to the beach was perfect and I actually formed the thought, "Wow, this might really be okay this time."

Then boom. It didn't. So. But thanks for all your support on PieFace yesterday, y'all. For your support over there.

OVER THERE! OVER THERE! What the fuck. Is that song. OVER THERE!

We had our terrific ending on Friday night, Ned and I did, and I took a cab back to my house. A lovely man from West Africa drove me home, and I asked about his life, and why he prefers here to New York, which is where he first came when he got here. He was a very nice man who was probably delighted to be driving my crying ass home and has no excuse for not marrying me, which I suggested. He's probably already on his way back to any corner of Africa. Doesn't have to be west.


Because I have 21 dollars till payday, and I had an empty tank of gas, I spent the weekend watching cat fisticuffs and binging This Is Us. Am obsessed now, like the rest of you. Who's your favorite? Gotta be the boyfriend of Kate, right?


I also did my cards, and I don't mean I had sex with my cards. I opted for jaunty-as-fuck red birds on teal, as you do, and also what I call Christmas in Yer Fuckin' FACE.


IT'S CHRISTMAS, YO. Wait. Wait'll you see the envelopes. If you were here yesterday for my special one-hour collector's edition post, you already saw the envelope, but I imagine you are still reeling. Hang on to your hat.




[grabs your lapel] DO YOU NOT KNOW THE DATE?

Anyway, I got halfway done, and now I hafta finish my cards tonight with a tasteful charcoal reindeer etching, the polar opposite of GET HAPPY birds and HEY! Santa!!, above. If your last name is A–L, you're all, okay, June. Be more frenetic. If you're an M–Z, you'll think wow, is June ever sedate this year.


I have a lotta people on my list, plus I feel compelled to write a personal note, because what's really the point of a card that's just all "Love, The Johnsons." Yeah, what about you, Johnsons? So I do stupid things like draw family portraits, and there's really no way to not make Edsel look like a rabbit. I guess his teeth are going the wrong way, aren't they? They should go up, not down. Why did I not pursue that career as a painter?


Anyway, considering my relationship is over AGAIN and I was desperately trying not to break into that $21, it was a good weekend. I finally had to charge gas yesterday, as my car has a convenient notification system that tells me how many miles I have to go on that particular tank of gas, and it was saying, "GRAB THE CAN, SISTER."

Then I went to the movies. I am sorry, but seeing It's a Wonderful Life at the old movie theater is my joint, and it was on, and fuck it. So I spent that $7 ($14 left), brought my own popcorn and a bottle of water (shhhh), and even though I got there half an hour early, the parking lot was full. Goddammit.

There was one asshole in a white truck taking up two spots. He was still in his truck, looking at his phone. People looking at their phones pisses me off way out of proportion to reality. I mean, they aren't beating a hobo. Anyway, I got out my car and tapped on his glass. He startled.


"May I pull in? The lot is full."

"I'm savin' this for my mother-in-law," he said.

Wow. Which is what I said. "Wow. Okay." Roooood.

So I had to go to a lot and pay $4 ($10 left), but it was worth it. I sat in the polar opposite place that Ned and I ever sit, and the place was packed, and I was the first person to run out of there like a little bitch, so if, indeed, he was there, I got away with it.

Anyway, tonight I celebrate my love for you and also finish my cards. Just two more nights of not spending my last $10! Can she do it? Will June make it till Thursday morning?

Oh, and Thursday morning, I'll finally show you my damn 10-year anniversary video, now that it's done and I spent forever on it and it's riddled with photos of Ned. I see on YouTube that 10 of you already looked at it, you delayed-gratification-what's-that motherfuckers.
we so bore of that veeedeo

I will talk at you tomorrow, unless I starve to death, and also, you realize Mr. Potter is Donald Trump, right? It hit me during his "lazy rabble" speech. And when he grabbed Mary Hatch's vagina.

Okay, talk at you.



The house began to pitch. And I’m a bitch.

"Marvin's getting married this weekend," I told Ned, "I feel nothing."

"See? That, right there. That scares the SHIT outta me. What if one day, after all this, you feel nothing for me?" I knew Ned was pointing at me dramatically, even though we were on the phone. He's in Kansas. Kansas, he says, is the name of his star.

Kansas, he says, is the name.of.his.star.

When I get to work today, Ima act like Glinda all day. I'll smile benevolently at everyone with my wand and sing in a really trilly voice. "Noon-ish, she says is the time of her deadline! Noonish, she says, is the time of her deadline."

"June, what time is the meeting?"

"Two two, two!"

My favorite line in that whole movie is, "Toto, too!" We need to incorporate that into our conversations today.

Also, I totally need a pink dress like that. What sleeves?

Anyway. He's in Kansas, Ned is, "slap in the middle of nowhere," is how he actually described it. I never knew I'd date anyone who said, "slap in the middle," but there it is.

And anyway, if you ask me, and you did by default cause you're stuck reading this, the HEALTHY response to your ex-husband getting married should be a feeling of nothing. I mean, if I felt rage or jealousy or deep sadness about the person I divorced five years ago, that might be a bad sign, right? Instead I feel a vague, Oh, good for him. And I'm Facebook friends with his new wife, and she seems cool. So what's the big deal?

Yesterday I had to write about 80 social media posts at work, not as my hobby, so I went to my hiding place. I don't know how other people get their work done in the open floor plan–I'm the only person I know who the headphones don't work for. You know how headphones are the universal sign for Do Not Disturb? About 60 times a day, I get someone gesturing at me between me and the computer screen, and then I take them off and it's all, "So how you doing?"

Seriously, why does anyone want to talk to me? I'm the crabbiest person you know.

So I can't work that way. That is why I got a hiding place at work.


I sit in this doorway, near an emergency exit, and there's a long hallway before you get there, and no reason to go here unless there's a, you know, emergency. Sometimes squirrels and birds go by the door, which is always lovely. I consider this Second Desk.


This time of year it's what you might call sunny.

Oooo, that reminds me, I get my hair cut and colored tonight. What a relief. Not only is it secretly gray, but it's all scraggeldy. I never did go back to the racist hairdresser–imagine how off the chain she is now.

Speaking of now, I've been watching all of the Mary Tyler Moore show. It's funny that they'd have a show they called that, but the lead character is Mary Richards. Anyway, on that show, they keep suggesting they do interesting things to the news, like give their opinion and not be neutral, or have funny segments, and those suggestions are always seen to be so outlandish. Oh, we'd NEVER do that.


Also, Sue Ann Nivens. Oh my god, she's the best.

Okay, I gotta go. Now that we've discussed the pressing issues of our time and all. I gotta slap something on, grab my wand and smile benevolently.


Okay, that was more fakely than benevolently.

June’s going to kiss you. She won’t even wait.

I'm trying to think of anything of note that happened to me this weekend after The Hair Incident of Saturday, but mostly I had migraines on and off.

TAAA-DAAAA! Thanks, June. Thank god I'm here today. Took time out to visit yer ass.


Yesterday was finally a nice day, after 46 days and nights of rain, so Edsel and I took a long walk, and then practiced our non-expressions.


Then we practiced our "stuffed and mounted" look.

It really was an excellent day yesterday. The kind of fall day where it's still warm, but not remotely oppressive, and you think, "Do I need a coat?" because it's breezy, but then you don't. I had to get some work done yesterday, which sucked because who wants to think of work on a Sunday. Even God doesn't. Even God's all, screw that. I'm restin'. Sittin' on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon. Goin' to the candidate's debate.

But I also went to a very bad movie. It was called The Last Film Festival and even though Jacqueline Bissett is on it with her hoots, it was not worth it. Her hoots are still fabulous. Girlfriend must've had 'em lifted or whatever. They were divine.

The movie was not.

Also, I have to sneak my own popcorn into the movie now, as I am not allowed to eat movie popcorn on my migraine diet. Except the thing is, my popcorn that I make with Parmesan cheese and nutritional yeast is 48 times better than that block of salt they sell at the movies. Shoulda been doing that all along.

I remember one of my very first conversations with Ned was about what we eat at the movies, and he was big into his ice (he likes that choppy ice, what's it called? Where it's like little slivers that you can't avoid? I hate that kind of ice). Re popcorn, we were both strongly non-butter people.

But even without that disgusting butter, eating movie popcorn is like after you've made out with Lot's Wife.

How much have you missed my Lot's Wife humor?

I remember having this conversation with him and being excited that he was rich enough to get snacks at the movies. Marvin used to discourage me from snacks. "Why do we need popcorn?"

We're divorced now.

Did I ever tell you about when we went to the movies in LA, and the ticket taker greeted us from behind the counter? She was seated. "Oh, don't get up," Marvin said, really snotty-like.

We walked over there and she tore our tickets from our wheelchair.

You know that feeling where your blood turns to ice?

Anyway, in summation. BYOP is better than BYOP. Bring Your Own Popcorn/Buy Your Own Popcorn. Down with BYOP. Yeah, you know me.

In the meantime, I'm trying to find ways to keep the World's Most Rambunctious Kitten amused. He is the cat version of Lottie. I can't have a sedate pet. No one mention Stanley, a thing I regret EVERY DAY. Anyway, he likes bird and squirrel videos, SDSilverman does. He acts just how you WANT a cat to react to them. All my other cats have been bored and look around at everything else when I get these videos out. Not Steely Dan.


Also, no one wants to play with that spitty ball, Edsel. No one.

I'd better go. Did you watch the ridiculous presidential debate last night? When did we all stop being grownups?

Dignifiedly, in her smoking jacket and ascot,


P.S. After I'm done writing these posts, I always go over to my categories and pick some that apply. It just occurred to me that it's the same as hashtagging. God, I'm annoying.