...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Beauty products · Film · Freaky Friday · June can't keep a man

The Perfect Day

Saturday was, like, perfect. Except there was no sex. But what’re you gonna do? I’m old. Those days are over. Now I’m depressed. Fuck Saturday. So to speak.

Anyway, when I woke up, it was warm-ish out. Like, in-the-’50s warmish. Which was lovely, considering I had been living inside a snow globe for the past three days. I’d been living in a window display of Santa’s wonderland. I was like Disner on Ice.

Disner is my old married name. That was only funny if you knew that.

So I woke up, and Dear June: We’re four paragraphs in and you’re not even out of bed yet.

IMG_3848.jpgIt’s Throwback Monday here on the PieBook. It’s Moronic Life Choices Monday.

This photo is from Friday night, and DEAR JUNE NOW WE’RE GOING BACK IN TIME YOU ASSHOLE.

On Friday night, I met Ned, my ex, NedEx, for a drink because Friday was the anniversary of our first date. At that same place. On those same barstools. We’ve returned every year, except for last year when we weren’t speaking. I had a whiskey sour, same as I had on our first date, and Ned had a Glenlivet on the rocks, which he did not have on our first date but in the past six years he’s become a fancy president and probably has to do things like drink Glenlivet as part of his responsibilities.

Anyway, it was without incident. He had a cold. I don’t even think we hugged in the parking lot at the end.

You know what I don’t want any more of? Being distracted. The whole time I was with Ned, I was preoccupied with anxious thoughts. Is this guy gonna answer my initial Hello email on OK Cupid?

Is he going to ask me out?

Is he ever going to answer that last email I sent?

When am I gonna see him again?

Why isn’t he ready to be exclusive? I certainly am.

Why won’t he tell me he loves me?

Is he ever going to want to see me more than twice a week?

Is he ever going to want to move in with me?

And so on. The whole time.

Now? I mostly think, Should I get up and drive to the cupcake place? Like, that’s the most pressing thought I have. It’s so …relaxing.

By the way, I never do. The cupcake place is pretty much two minutes from my front door and the last time I went there was when my mother was in town in July. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either. But I like the idea that it’s over there. Cupcakes are just a short drive away.

IMG_3855.jpgWhen I got home from my controversial drink, this was happening. Old Batsheba, here, was up to no good.

Anyway, I GOT UP on Saturday (Oh dear God, June) and it was warmish, so the pets and I played in the yard.



IMG_3864.jpgWow. Look at all that frolicking. They play the way I did as a child. Stand there and wait till you can go back in and watch Bugs Bunny. Okay, so I didn’t capture much play. TRUST ME.

Also, I would like to heartily embrace my lawn guys for moving that chair just into a random spot in the yard like that. I’ve moved it back to its rightful place, to get snowed on in a tidy spot.

I headed out to eat lunch, because who is sick of Lean Cuisine, and when I did, I popped into this little boutique that I always walk past and never go into. It was cute, and two rooms large, and of course I was the only person in there, and

Dear People Who Own or Work at a Store:

Don’t follow the shopper. Don’t follow her and tell her all the specials you’re having. I guarantee you if the person is a bargain shopper, she’ll ask, or look at the signs. And that whole, “Oh, I just happen to be over here admiring our backless dresses at this rack” is fooling no one. Do I LOOK like a shoplifter?

Oh, god, maybe I do.

Anyway, this prompted me to shop in a million little stores Saturday, and I bought nothing, because please see last weekend’s shoe extravaganza. Still, it was fun to browse.


When did I become someone who “browses”? For reading glasses?

THE POINT IS, one of the places I wandered into is a lash place? Where they do tinting and extensions?

Dudes. I thought that was all they did. Turns out, they do Botox and micro-needling and all that bullshit I love to do to myself! And they’re as close as the cupcake place! And, AND, I asked about micro-needling, and they told me what it did, and then said, “That’s not something you really need.” So I trust them, as well.

Ima be Norm on Cheers at that place. Oh my god. Exciting.

Then I headed to the local pet supply place (okay, that was a funny blog post I just linked to. Say, June, up in yourself much?) to get Eds a new collar. His is getting mighty dingy, and who decided cloth collars were a stellar idea for dogs, who roll in red dirt and squirrel bits and so on?

IMG_3888.jpgAt the pet place, they were having kitten rescue day, and the rescue thing appeared to be put on by a fraternity. I say this because the front of the store was teeming with fraternity boys behind a table. And it was an…African American fraternity. What I’m saying to you is I walked into young hot men of color holding kittens.

“Did you DIE and go to HEAVEN?” asked my mother, when I stampeded to call her.

“Well, we know heaven is out of the question,” I said, admiring young boys like the Elizabeth Smart perv I am.

I know it wasn’t Elizabeth Smart who married her student. What the hell was that woman’s name? She married that kid, and he had a Hawaiian-sounding name like Lava Hulu PooPoo or something. The only other name I can think of is Casey Anthony, and I know that’s wrong too.

Hell. The good news is, Lava Hulu PooPoo is an excellent cat name.

When I got home from my shopping extravaganza, there was a couple looking at Peg’s house, with the man in the couple’s dad along to do dad things like look in the crawl space. Do you know what my dad would never do?

I’d heard someone had bought that house, but maybe it fell through. I don’t know. The point is, they wanted to know things about the house and neighborhood, and just as I was assuring them the ‘hood was great, we all looked up.

IMG_3880.jpgBecause this was happening.

When I’d pulled out of my driveway Saturday morning, I’d noticed how all the other roofs in my neighborhood were lovely; so perfectly snow-covered. Except mine. Mine was riddled with paw prints.

I’m surprised theirs weren’t, too. I’ve seen this cat on every roof on my side of the street thus far.

“If you move in, I hope you like cats,” I told the people.

“Well, we’ve got a Doberman,” they said, because apparently they are Shaft in 1972. “But he loves cats.”

That is exactly what Steely Dan needs: To leap onto Peg’s roof and have a Doberman smiling up at him. That’ll show him.


I was all set to stay in after that, and play with my app, have it tell me how much I look like a man, or Andy Gibb, when something on my phone popped up telling me about Ultherapy near me for 25% off.

I am not kidding. First of all, how creepy are our phones now. Secondly, you know I’ve been obsessed with saving that damn $3,000 ever since I came up with the idea to get Ultherapy. I called the number, and they had a free consultation that same day, at 5:00. So I left the house, put air in my tire (this is yet another thing I’ve learned to do while single. Change doorknobs, kill roaches, and now put air in m’tires. At this point I might as well become a welder) and screeched over there on my air-filled tires.

But you know what? Even though I’d save money at this new place? I didn’t trust them. It seemed like kind of a sales factory, whereas the other place had a nurse take me in and tell me details, and show me photos and so on, this place was all, “Come in. How you paying?”

So I demurred.

But THEN, I got home, and I got the mail. And for no reason I can think of other than they’re bored with my lack of activity, my credit card company sent me some of those goddamn checks. You know the checks I mean?

When I paid off all my cards this past summer, I gave them all to my mother, so I can’t use them. I saved only my vet credit card (Care Credit) just in case something happens, which it always does, to one of the pets.

But here was a regular card company, saying, “Use these checks for anything!”

Remember that time Jesus was up on that rock or whatever? He always seemed to be hanging out on some rock somewhere. I guess there wasn’t a lot of development yet. He was never hanging at Orange Julius Caesar or whatever.

Anyway, remember when he got tempted? That’s how I felt when I had those checks after I’d just been to the Ultherapy place. Mother of GOD, I could just use these checks!

Remember that time June compared herself to Jesus?

Anyway, if you’re asking WDJD (What Did June Do?), I ripped up said checks. Now I’m stuck with this haggard face till I save $3,000, so thanks a lot.

how old you eben BE? how yuu still alibe?

So that was my perfect Saturday. Sans sex.


On Sunday, I went to a French movie, and I was the only person in the theater, which is why I could take a picture of said movie. I know you’re stunned that the French folk were smoking. Right after, those French folk were fucking. No wonder they stay so thin. That’s all they ever do.

There are never any shower scenes.

IMG_3943.jpgAfter, I bought myself some SweetTart hearts at the Rite Aid, and ate so many that I scraped up the inside of my mouth. I feel like you never hear French women say this. These SweetTarts have [burst] no artificial flavors [burst].

IMG_3940.jpgIMG_3933.jpgAfter my daily tending to Edsel, which includes letting him stare at me 40 hours a day, I took a “How’s Your Anxiety?” quiz, which maybe he should take. To get the results, you had to give them your name and email address, which bugs the shit out of me. It’s the equivalent of a store clerk following you around.

A few hours later, I got this email…


Had totally forgotten I’d told them my name was Fuck You.

I am my own Valentine.



...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · Freaky Friday · Friends · June can't keep a man

June plays it safe with an unoffensive title

So far this Easter weekend I’ve had to call the emergency number for the gas company so that I wouldn’t blow up, told Ned we have to not talk for a few months, put up a bat house, heard from two men from my past, and ordered two new bras. 36D in the howse! Actually, 36D in the mail. Continue reading “June plays it safe with an unoffensive title”

Freaky Friday · Other people's pets

Stampeding for pasties

Mercury is in retrograde, did you know? That means–and I know this because I lived in LA for 10 years, so I'm an expert in all things weird–that communication gets slowed down or misunderstood or convoluted, somehow. So hree d dkehere odoseene fisl, 0e.

See what I did, there?

The POINT is, yesterday I sat here like an idiot, as opposed to the other times that I sit here like a genius, and wrote you a whole blog post with hilarity and big reveals and the most important news of our day, and then boom. It was gone. Just gone. And then my internet died.

So I drove to work and tried to post from there? The whole post didn't exist anymore. And I'd saved a draft, but it was completely gone.

It wasn't that good of a post anyway, but still. Stupid Mercury. Rolling around on my floor, all silvery and elusive.

It'll be here through the 22nd. The retrograde thing will. So be on guard. En garde. I'm poking you with my drink sword.

Do you do that in your family, or is it just mine? You get some kind of elaborate drink, such as a Shirley Temple, and it has a sword with all your fruit on it, there, girly drink, and you take the fruit off and have sword fights with others at the table? Is that just me?

The other day, I was at this great sandwich restaurant I love. It's like the restaurant that time forgot. It was invented in the late '70s, and they've updated nothing. Their sign is big fat rounded letters carved from individual pieces of wood. They have paintings of ballerinas on the wall. It's paneled. Oh dear god I love it there.

Plus also, they have any kind of soda imaginable, and my entire point is as I was leaving the other day I noted they had Shirley Temple–flavor soda. Ever since I saw that, I have been dying to try it. It comes in glass bottles. Maybe I have a hashtag goal this weekend now. It's a limited-edition flavor. Fancy.

IMG_1890 (1)

This was the important picture I was trying to plunk in for you yesterday when all hell broke loose with stupid Mercury. I was trying to tell you that my new lawn guy is DA BOMB and he's cleaned up all the weeds and weed trees and so on in my yard, leaving Edsel few places to poop. Part of what I've learned from my Edsel support groups on Facebook is that other Carolina Dogs are weird about pooping, too. Edsel has never pooped on a walk. He goes off into a bush and does it there. You can see his choices are now limited. And now I'm thinking, "I wonder if I can get a fake bush?" This is why I never have any money. I'm forever Sisyphus-ing things.

What I need to do is hire some shirtless man to put up my zoo sign. He can poop behind that. Edsel, not the shirtless handyman.

Tonight is First Friday in Greensboro, although really it's the first Friday of the month for everyone, not just us, and first of all we're having goodbye drinks with someone at work who's leaving. It feels like everyone is leaving. We just hired two new people named Alex, though, and I am not even kidding you.

Anyway, after that are the regular downtown festivities, including my friend Kit celebrating 15 years of her vintage store, so she's having special things like she's gonna greet everyone topless with just her vintage pasties and so on. I should have suggested this idea to her weeks ago, so she could be on the lookout for pasties.

Also, at a different store, for some reason they are having naked painted women, and you know Ima stampede to that. Maybe shop for my fake bush there.

So a big evening, is what I'm saying. I'm preparing for a time. A big time.

My mother just texted me with, "OMG, GOP. WTF?" She is so delighted.


And finally, Lottie's parents have been sending me photos and videos that I can't upload here for some reason (Mercury), and I love seeing her little black-mouthed self. Oh, Lottie. I miss that devil dog so. I can still see a spot on her little snout where fang of Eds visited. Lottie and I should have just gotten in the car and driven off. Left Edsel in the dust to pay for this house on his own. See how he liked that.

I probably would have returned to find Edsel the CEO of some organization, and a second level added to my house.

I hope everyone takes full advantage of this last weekend to wear white pants. I want you to go around like the Good Humor man all weekend. For me, it just isn't Labor Day without Jerry Lewis.



Freaky Friday · June's stupid life · Music

[Intentionally left blank]

Coming out of the shower this morning, I realized that right now, my house smells like a perfect combination of freshly brewed coffee and puppy. What more can you ask for?

Somehow that made me think of: drivin' home this evenin', coulda sworn we had it all worked out.


Mostly what that woman did in that video was stare blankly.

Wait, I've emulated it for you. Little music video for your viewing pleasure.


This is how men want us. Hot and blank. Like my coffee. Do you remember that friend of mine, The Other June, who I haven't seen in ages, who came over once and I offered her coffee, and I said, "Do you take anything in it?"

"Oh, no," she said, "just cream and sugar."

That has haunted me. It's haunted me all this time. That must have been seven years ago. Oh, no. Just cream and sugar.


Yes. I take abandoned toys and corkscrews in my coffee. You got any?

I love a cabana boy in my coffee.

Oh no. Just cream and sugar.


It's like that story I know I've told you, where I ran that marathon in Chicago. It was a fundraiser for AIDS Project Los Angeles, where we raised money for them and they flew us to Chicago and put us up in a swank hotel and we all ran the Chicago marathon. As opposed to flying to Chicago and running the Madrid marathon.

Anyway, there was a little party after. Whichever asshole planned the party said, Hey! I know! Let's have everyone run 26.2 miles, then after they've showered and gotten stiff, we'll have a party you have to access by climbing many many many stairs!

You've never seen so many people go upstairs sideways, like crabs.

The point is, once we were up there, mawing on snacks like we'd never seen snacks before, or like we'd, oh, run 26.2 miles that day, one guy said, "Weren't the showers at our hotel fantastic?"

They really were. It was a lovely hotel. The morning of the marathon, I had to get up at like 4:30 or some godawful time that even thinking about it now makes me ill, and I was filling my little running pack with dried fruit and stuff, and I looked out the window. Across the courtyard were so many other lights on, and I knew everyone in them was also running the marathon, and it was so thrilling. It was like Rear Window, but it was more Run Window.

Dear June, Try to at least make sense. Love, Reader.

OH MY GOD ANYWAY. Gay guy at party. Loved the showers. We agreed the showers were good.

"That was the second-most refreshing shower I've ever had," he said.


WHAT ELSE HAS HE DONE that there would ever be a shower, anywhere ever, more refreshing than the one you take after running




miles? What? Did he mud wrestle an elephant? Was he abandoned in a rainforest for a week?


I'll never know. I've thought of calling AIDS Project LA, asking for the entire roster of everyone who ran the 2000 Chicago marathon, and calling every man who ran it to ask WERE YOU THE ONE WHO TOOK THE SECOND-MOST REFRESHING SHOWER?

Also, who ranks their showers?

In completely unrelated news, the elusive two-headed cat came to feast at my dwelling.

Yesterday, I took the day off and ended up working in my lavender nightgown all day. "Oh, I'll just do this a minute," I said, opening my laptop. I closed it at 6:00. "Can I, like, get a refund on my day?" I emailed my boss. She said yes.

So that was relaxing. And then as soon as I took off my sexy nightgown and got on my workout clothes, I got a migraine. I did half of Tracy Gold workout until my head threatened to kill me, and then I lay prone and moaning all evening.

All in all, a fun day. Second-most fun day of my life. No, just cream and sugar.


While I've been writing you this impressive tome, I looked behind me and noticed this. This is nice. Now they have a window to the stars. It rained like the dickens last night, it rained sad orphans, and as a result the dogs tracked in ALL THE MUD. I mean, there is no more mud out there. They tracked in people's adobes, and mud huts–which are probably the same as adobes–and basically all the earth is here. Clean, is what my floors are.

I wash my floor almost every day now. It's like I'm a clean freak without the clean part.

Believe it or not, this important post must come to an end, and I know it cuts like a knife. I know you wanted more from me. No, not really. Just cream and sugar.




Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

June gets a threatening can of beans

After yesterday's tragedy of my sparkly Eiffel Tower notebook being stolen RIGHT OFF MY DESK,

IMG_3585(outline of the body)

I came to my pretty house

IMG_3588and did the things I normally do, such as feed the dogs, let the dogs out (who, who who), feed the cats, let the dogs back in, slop the hogs, note the writing in the spiderweb and then get the mail.

We should all totally read Charlotte's Web for our next book club. Why are all the best books ones I've already read?

Anyway, I went to the porch to get the mail, my pretty porch with all the pink and red flowers like I live in a fairy tale, and this was on my welcome mat.

Please note that I do not actually HAVE a welcome mat, as I really don't welcome anyone. I know I've said 200 times that my mother has people running in and out of her house all day, and if this happened to me on the regular I would kill myself. She grew up with a lot of people; I grew up with me, and two adults who came home for dinner then went off to do stuff like go to political meetings.

My mother was forever going off to political meetings, and it just dawned on me that that's what Frank Kennedy told Scarlett O'Hara he was doing when he was forming the Ku Klux Klan and got himself shot clean in the head. I dearly hope that's not what my mother was up to in the '70s. Do they even allow women in the KKK?

All of a sudden I don't like Ashley even more than I didn't already. That fuck ass was ALSO at a "political meeting." Gentlemanly Ashley. What a fuckstick. Melanie was dumb as a stump.

Oh my god anyway. So I find this weird can right outside my front door.

IMG_3612"But I fix thing good." Smiley face.

WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN? How effing creepy is this can and note? Nothing says "threat to your life" like a can of green beans.

"Could it be the stupid kids across the street?" asked Ned. Well, talk about indirect. If they hate us, why not just have a party at 4 a.m.–oh. They do.

I have no idea. It's eerie, is what it is. It's Freaky Friday. Is what it is. And people ask, "Whatever happened to Freaky Friday" and the answer is, no one has sent in a new weird story. I guess I could make one up, or alternatively get threatening cans of beans on my porch to really liven up this blog.

I'm off. To fix thing good. Smiley face.

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Freaky Friday: Gordon Lightfoot Edition

Thanks for your how-to-fix-a-scratch tips yesterday. Who knew rubbing a walnut on it would work? Aw nuts.

June's blog. Come for the hilarity. Get disappointed.

Anyway, today is Friday, so I bring you a Freaky Friday from Faithful Reader MissPam, who tells us stories of her kid, Amy, that we all love. Here is her Freaky Friday story:

Miss June,

This is not big time freaky. Just a little freaky. Feel free to scorn it!

When we were stationed at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina we were especially close friends with our next door neighbors, the Lightfoots. We had moved in around the same time. We were in and out of each other's houses constantly. Between us, we had eight kids. All the kids without exception hated the Lightfoots' downstairs bathroom. They all called it the scary bathroom. They would either run upstairs or even next door to avoid using it and no one ever wanted to bathe in there. We never got a straight answer as to why it was scary. It just was. I personally thought it was because Amy hated flushing toilets and somehow had influenced the others. It was a loud flush. We had lived there almost two years when the bathtub clogged up in there. Judy scheduled maintenance to come and repair it. Afterward she came over and had to tell me a secret that we both swore never ever to tell the kids.

The tub was the type with the drain thingy being a metal disc with small holes and you closed the drainage with a knob up on the faucet. The plumber had to remove it with a screwdriver, and once he did, there was an obstruction right there at the metal plate. He had to pry it out. Judy brought it with her when she ran over to our house. It was a heavy black metal pentagram.

Some previous occupant had taken off the metal disc and wedged it into the drain! To what purpose I have no idea. But it freaked us out. I'd like to say the kids instantly started liking the bathroom. That didn't happen. Just afterward Judy and I took to avoiding the scary bathroom. And it was.

Side note. Amy is still afraid of the self-flushing toilets. She reports to me whenever she encounters one. "Mom, it was one of those scary toilets. I had to run!" Makes road trips enjoyable. We keep track.


Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Extra-spooky Freaky Friday because it’s Easter. Or something.


Are you horrified? Do I do that every year? I think I do. The point is, it's St. Patrick's Day and we're all getting ready to cut turkey with our families and spin a dreidel. Speaking of which…

HeebI guess Jewish kids were sick of getting the shaft, AGAIN, when it comes to their holidays, so they get Mensch on a Bench, now, to ensure they're good for Hanukkah or something. Poor Jewish kids. Seriously, I'd tell Marvin about my Christmases and Easters and he'd be all, we look for a cracker. That'd be it. Their whole holiday. Oooo, we found a cracker! Cellllllebrate good times, come on!

Anyway, today is Arbor Day and because it is, I'm giving you a good Freaky Friday, sent by Faithful Reader Jennifer. Ready?


Dear June,
I thought you might be interested in the following benevolent ghost story for your Freaky Friday series.
My husband and I recently purchased an old home in Thomasville, Georgia. It's more than 100 years old and, of course, people have asked if it was haunted. When we were moving in, my sister-in-law got the willies when heading up our stairs. My mother grew up in a haunted house (with a true dirty-old-man sort of ghost), so she cackled (yes, really) over the thought ours might now be.
We spent a few weekends camping out between closing on the property and moving in and didn't really notice anything other than the usual old house noises echoing around empty rooms. After we moved in, though, and spent that first night in our new master bedroom, things were different.
While my husband slept on, blissfully unaware, I was awakened multiple times in the night by a series of four knocks coming from who knows where–I certainly wasn't about to go investigate! There were also sounds of boxes being slid around the wood floors downstairs–that creeped me out the most, even if nothing was out of place the next morning. I was not amused; mostly I was just tired!
Now, I'm fairly comfortable with the concepts of the astral realm, etc. I read Tarot cards and have done some scrying and Ouija board work. I consider myself fairly intuitive, but I've never had any one-on-one experiences with spirits outside of the scrying and spirit board stuff. But I did know that I wasn't going through another night like that one, so–through meditation/visualization–I put up a security blanket around the house to ward against any metaphysical mischief (I also may have told the house, aloud, "Not tonight, Momma needs some sleep!"). It seemed to work, no more strange noises in the night.
We hosted a Halloween party last weekend and, knowing that a couple of my guests are sensitive to ghosts/spirits, I took down the security blanket (but left up a net–I'm semi-brave, not fully stupid) and told anyone/thing listening that as long as they could play nice, they could come play tonight.
Having just finished up one of the house tours to a group of guests, the Friend M told me, "You're not alone." Okay then! Apparently she encountered two spirits in the house, but they just seemed curious about what was going on. Fair enough. She wasn't able to get much more from them as she wasn't feeling well that evening.
Friend S, though, really clicked with one of the spirits: a woman, appearing to be in her mid-30s, who was decidedly happy that there was laughter in the house again after so very long of being tired and down. S did not yet know that the house had been rented out as a personal care home for the last 10+ years and was vacant for a time before that. I don't doubt for a minute that the state of the house when we purchased it reflected the state of the care the patients received during their time here.
But that wasn't all she shared! There is a section of the staircase that she is uneasy on; that she clutches the railing for dear life as she goes down. It was either that she'd fallen down them or that she'd witnessed a fall. Also, in what is now my office, there was an argument of life-altering sort/things-that-cannot-be-unsaid vein that took place between a man and a woman.
In my research into the house's history, I'd learned that the original owner did take a tumble down the stairs and was hospitalized. And I believe it was shortly before his passing or the cause of it. So, if it was his fall that the woman witnessed, that could make her his daughter. And I also know that the daughter was a schoolteacher and never married, living out her days in this house at least through her retirement, so I got the impression it was an argument over a suitable suitor. She didn't seem to indicate (via S) that this was wrong. 
I'm looking forward to finding out what more this spirit (that I keep calling Eleanor in my head for whatever reason) has to show me about the house. Though, right now, I'd happily settle for the whereabouts of the leak that started last night from the upstairs pipes!
Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Inch-of-my-life Freaky Friday

I'm running late of course again today, and really Nedding takes up a lot of my time. It's my new hobby. It's not a bad hobby as those things go, but I feel like knitting would not distract me till after 8:00 in the morning.

At any rate, here it is Friday and I remembered to bring you a Freaky Friday story, because I am organized within an inch of my life. It's brought to you by Pamela Soul Sister, who has read and commented here for 73 years.

Before I delve into her story, lemme put all these pictures up that I keep meaning to show you and never do. They are all very congruous and organized. Because organized within an inch of my life.

IMG_1755Ned in Peg's yard the day she gave us pizza. Ned went to NC State. Ned is a trifle obsessed with NC State things, like sports things, and boy, me too.

IMG_1697My work husband, Ryan, went to a lunch-and-learn at work, and ate the box lunch provided. Someone didn't show up for the lunch-and-learn, so here is Ryan having second lunch, inexplicably at my desk. I would like to tell you I did not eat all those chocolate-covered almonds but that would be a lie.

IMG_1803Another rare and unusual Eds with Blu sighting.

IMG_1836I feel like maybe I didn't get big enough dog beds for my poor curs. Look at Edsel, falling off his. Will rectify.

IMG_1846 2TinaDoris gave me housewarming Pop Tarts.

IMG_1828Ned at the hamburger place, where a kid acted the fool the entire time. He was like, 8, or maybe 15, or maybe not, but he was too old to be acting the fool. His stupid dad let him run in and out the door, and finally the stupid kid hit his face on the window and SCREAMED so much that the whole place fell silent. No one felt sorry for that bratty kid.

Okay, good. Desktop is clear. Onto Pamela Soul Sister, so to speak. PSS, you will notice Ned is right on top of you. We're having the same morning!


My first grownup apartment was a converted warehouse in downtown Brooklyn, NYC. Soon after moving in, my roommate and I would both hear all kinds of strange, un-attributable sounds at all hours of the day and night. Also, things would fall when no one was near. We were told that someone had died on the premises when it was a candy factory. So, we just assumed it was the spirit of that poor soul.

We tried to cleanse our space with sage and Florida water and such, but nothing worked. We frequented a Yoruba candle shop in the neighborhood and decided to call in some professionals. Two little old brown ladies dressed in white, Santeria priestesses, showed up…with sage and Florida water (um…we tried that)!. But they also brought with them The Gift. They told us that it was not the soul who died there that was with us, but several of my guardian angels. The most animated of the bunch was a Native American ancestor (they could tell he was Native American by his garb), who made it his mission to look after me. They said he was harmless, but just liked to make his presence known. They told me to talk to him and tell him that I appreciated his presence, but that he should quiet down and stop scaring us. 

I did as they instructed. It worked. The shenanigans stopped cold. 

Before they departed, they told me, "Oh, by the way…you have The Gift, too.  You can do what we do. You just need to develop your psychic muscle." Or some such words. 

A year or so later, I got a reading from a very renowned intuitive and he confirmed everything those ladies told me.

I've been using my powers for good ever since. Just kidding. I am purposefully not tapped in to that part of me…yet. OOOWEEOOO!

-Pamela Soul Sister-

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Freaky Fleeta Friday

I keep forgetting to tell you something cool. You know my coworker, who when I talk about her on this blog I call Fleeta, and I came up with that name using the random name generator? And we were all, Fleeta. Pfft. Yeah, there's a name. Remember that?


Well, recently our pal Fleet (that's her casual, we-know-her-so-well nickname) went back home for a visit, and she asked some of the older relatives to tell her stories about the family, stories from way back, so she'd know her history.

Turns out? Her great grandmother? Fleeta. HER GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S NAME WAS FLEETA!

How weird is that? Out of all the names the random name generator came up with. And who ever even HEARD of that name, ever?

So that's today's first Freaky Friday story, and here's a bonus story, from an actual reader, who wanted me to give her a cool name, so I will call her Phleeta.

Oh my god I love myself.


This doesn't seem like much of a story compared to some others you've had but here goes.

About forty years ago we were living in a new house in a new subdivision in Knoxville, Tennessee. There were a lot of creaking noises at night; we were told by the builder that new houses did that as they settled. One dark night I found myself suddenly wide awake andI felt someone was in the room. I sat up and I saw a small figure in a white gown at the foot of the bed. I couldn't see the face clearly but the white gown shown in the darkness. I thought it was my six year old daughter and I whispered her name, twice.  Then I remembered, she doesn't have a white nightgown anymore. The figure slowly dissolved and I lay there with my heart pounding. I knew there had been something there.

I didn't tell anyone what I had seen. I didn't want to frighten my small children and I didn't think anyone else would believe me.

Seven years later we're living in a different house, different city.My now 13 year old daughter heard me telling this story to a neighbor and her mouth fell open. She said that in that same house she had been lying awake late one night (child was a night owl and always had trouble sleeping) and she saw a man and a woman in a red dress dancing down the hall. She said, "I thought it was you and Dad at first but then……I realized it wasn't. I never told anyone because I didn't think anyone would believe me."

She's now 46 and she still swears this is true.  I have no explanation of why there would be ghosts in a new house. The subdivision was on the site of an old farm but that's all I know. We moved a year later
and I've always regretted not contacting the new owners to see if they ever saw anything.  My daughter and I still talk about it occasionally and it haunts (ha!) us to this day.

Phleeta, but give me a cool name if you use this

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Freaky Friday: Look what June remembered to do!

I have gotten a few Freaky Friday submissions since Peter's chilling tale. Here's one from Jeanne.


My mother used to tell a story about me: When I about four, I found my mother weeping and asked her why. She told me it was my late grandmother’s birthday and that she missed her mother. I left the room and came back about ten minutes later holding my hand in the air. When my mother asked what I was doing, I said that I had brought my grandmother to visit. I don’t remember having my hand in the air— I do remember walking from my mother’s bedroom to mine, and stopping in the doorway because even though the room was empty, I felt like there was someone there. And then I remember being picked up.

Twenty years later, I was at a friend’s house and told her the story. She asked if I’d ever had that sensation again, as if there was someone in what seemed to be an empty room. When I said that I occasionally had that feeling, she asked if I’d felt it in her house. Without thinking, I pointed to the next room and said, “Well, there’s something by the dining room window.”

The next day she told her neighbor what I’d said and the neighbor got a weird look on her face. She told my friend that the previous occupant of the house had been a sickly old man who sat for hours looking out that window every day for the last ten years of his life.


OooooWEEEEEOoooooo! Jeanne freaks me out.

I leave you now with something I found while I was (WAIT FOR IT!) (WAAAAAAIT!) packing. When my mother turned 60, she asked Marvin to write a song for her. So he did. You'll never guess what my mom's name is after you hear it.

Download 1 Audio Track

I hope you can click on it and play. Kills me. Marvin was funny. Okay, I'm out. Have a fine weekend and please give me words of cheer because all I will be doing is schlepping and cleaning, cleaning and schlepping.

XO, Pam

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life · OooooooWEEEEEooooooo!!!

Return of Freaky Friday. OooooooWEEEEEEOooooooo!

I haven't done any Freaky Friday tales lately because as far as I know, I'm out of them. If you sent me one and I never published it, tell me in an email and I will look for it. Do you have any idea how many emails I get a day? They get lost, man. Lost. I guess I could make folders.

But I digress. I digress into folders, which is always riveting. So let me stop digressing and take you to Faithful Reader and Sender of Dog Flowers Peter's Freaky Friday story. You ready?


The first thing you need to know is that this story is true.  I heard it first from my father many years ago at the dinner table.  He was relating a tale he had been told by one of his closest family friends, a staunch Catholic who managed a large department store in the nearest city.  But this was during the late 1960s.  I was in my teens, jaded by the Vietnam War and questioning authority.  I didn’t believe it, so I spoke to one of the participants, the man’s son.  We had been friends since boyhood, and I have never known him to lie.  Even now, when we get together and reminisce, I ask him if this possibly could have happened.  He nods his head and says, “Yes, it did.  But don’t ask me to explain it.”   

It was a summer in New England.  The Beach Boys were filling the air on AM radio with their surfing tunes.  On the highways, everyone wanted to be behind the wheel of a Mustang.  The Red Sox had yet to find their Impossible Dream season, but Curt Gowdy could still make the games interesting from his radio perch at Fenway Park. 

My friend and his twin brother were in their mid-teens.  They earned spending money from cutting lawns and doing odd chores for neighbors.  As it happened, at the beginning of the summer an elderly woman moved into the house across the street.  The lawn surrounding her house had not been cut in some time, so the boys’ mother suggested they go across the street and offer to cut it.  They did, and the elderly woman was only too happy to agree.  When they had finished, drenched in sweat and covered with grass clippings, she asked what she owed them.

“Nothing,” they said.

Though she insisted, they refused to be paid.  She had no choice but to simply express her deepest thanks.  Standing on her front porch, she watched them push the lawn mower back across the street, and a smile filled her aged face.

As the summer progressed, they returned each week to cut the woman’s lawn.  There were other jobs to be done around her house, and they tackled those with the same spirit.  But they continued to refuse any payment for their work.  They told her that they were happy to help a neighbor, and they wouldn’t think of accepting money for doing so.  

One Thursday morning, towards summer’s end, their father was walking the aisles of the department store.  It was still a couple of hours before noon, and the store was not particularly crowded.  He saw his elderly neighbor approaching him from the opposite end of the aisle, and they met somewhere in the middle.  She was wearing a yellow rain slicker, which struck him as odd because there was no rain in the forecast.  “Good morning,” he said in greeting.

She smiled.  “I just wanted to come down to thank you and tell you how much I appreciate everything your boys have done for me,” she said in reply.  “They could not have been nicer.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “They’ve been happy to help.  But you certainly didn’t have to come all the way in here to tell me that.  Is there anything I can assist you with in the store?” he asked.

“No,” she answered.  “I just wanted to make sure I had a chance to tell you how I felt.”  And she turned and walked away. 

He didn’t give their meeting another thought.  On Saturday morning, he saw the woman’s son, a man he knew, entering her house and removing some of her items.  He crossed the street and asked if she was all right.

“Oh,” the son replied.  “You haven’t heard.  She passed away on Thursday morning.” 

“That’s impossible,” he replied.  “She came into the department store on Thursday morning.  I spoke to her.  She seemed fine.”

The son shook his head.  “You must have your days confused.  She wasn’t feeling well that morning.  My wife and I came over about 8 o’clock to take her to the hospital.  She died around ten.”

“That’s just about when I saw her.  She was in the store wearing a yellow rain slicker.”

The son took a step backward and stood there for a moment, unable to speak. “When we got to the house that morning,” he began, “my mother said she was cold.  We were in a rush and couldn’t find her a sweater, so we put her in that rain slicker.  She was wearing it when she died.

...friend/Ned · Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Old flame

I spilled a bag of peanuts into the dogs' bag of food, so now every meal is packed with peanuts. Kibble really satisfies. And if you think my dogs are persnickety about peanuts in the shell being in their kibble, you must be new.

Anyway, I had been wanting to tell you about going to pet therapy with Faithful Reader Happy, below. IMG_0489
IMG_0480(I like how pet therapy is supposed to be for the elderly, and there I was up in some dog's grille. Step aside, old lady. You think you got problems?)

We went on Thursday. I did not bring my dogs, as I did not want to have to explain to any family why gramma turned into Tallulah's afternoon tea.

100_0534Scone gramma do be delishus.

Anyway, we had ourselves a time, and one old guy turned out to be a sort-of-famous musician, and I took a movie of him off in the corner playing piano, and when I get time, I will You Tube it and put it up for you.

On Friday, I had dinner with Ned. I know. We talk talk talked, and it must have gone well, because at 3:00 in the morning we found ourselves at the park, sitting on chairs watching the meteor shower. As soon as we sat down, a really dramatic one shot across the sky. "WOW!" we both said, excited for our meteor shower.

Half an hour later, Ned said, "Well, we saw one."

Ten minutes after that, Ned said, "Well, we saw that one. It was a good one."

Finally another meteor shot across.

"Well, that's two."

"Are you going to be the town crier about each star?" I asked him.

A few minutes later, Ned said, "Well, we saw two."

What I am saying to you is, it was not so much a shower as kind of a sprinkle. And nothing makes you feel better than going to sleep at 4:00.

Yesterday, Ned and I scraped my goddamn ceiling, which lemme tell you is a pain in my ass.

IMG_0493 IMG_0492Ned was there when the chips were down.

If that weren't lighthearted enough, we went to Lowe's, where no one else was on a holiday weekend, and selected a weed whacker, replacement screening for my door, and bug spray. Because, bugs. Neither of us knows the first thing about replacing a screen, at least we didn't yesterday. Now we're screen experts.

"Today we're going to find out the diameter of your spline, and get some of that," said Ned, just a while ago, and then he said, "You know what I never thought I'd hear myself say? 'The diameter of your spline.' But there it is."

So, obviously Ned and I are spending some time together, and he said if we don't reunite, at least my house will be fixed and my weeds will be gone.

Would you like to know what I am not asking for, here? Advice. That is what I am not asking for. Just keeping you abreast, as it were.

Oh! But I AM asking for advice on this.

How, in the name of all that is fucking sacred, do you change the goddamn light bulbs on this light fixture?

IMG_0498I don't even LIKE this light fixture. Who am I, an old plantation owner, calling in the slaves? Why do I even HAVE this light fixture? Oh, welcome to my carriage house, y'all. Let me get you a julep. What the fuck. And to add insult to injury, I CAN'T EVEN USE IT because the light bulbs are burnt out.

Neither the top or bottom things unscrew in any helpful way, by the by. I have tugged and screwed and pulled and sweated, but enough about reuniting with Ned.


Really. Do you own this light fixture? If so, nice taste. Secondly, what the fuck do you do when you have to change bulbs? Also, I can't get enough of that shape bulb. Oooo, it's a real flame! Your lamp, your Civil War carriage house lamp, is on FI-YA! I'm burning up!

Okay, I'm going. Ned keeps saying we need to "seize the day" and get all this shit done at my house. Seventy times he's said it. Oh, and when he came over to scrape my ceiling yesterday, he said, "So, have you made a plan for how we're going to go about this?"

I blinked at him for awhile. A plan. I shook his hand. "Hi, I'm June. It's so nice to meet you." A plan. So last night, Ned made a list of all the things we have to do today, and I am assuming he is also creating a, you know, plan. I did ask if we had a plan on where we were going to eat lunch when we broke from all the seizing of the day. I thought it was a legitimate question but whatever.

Okay. Here I go.

June, seizing.

...friend/Ned · Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

In which Ned does not wish to kick off his Sunday shoes. Also, FREEEK EEE Friday!

I might have been a little dramatic about the Freaky Friday story, but it will show up at the end of this post. So all you have to do is slog through the crap Ima blog about and then you get a nice creepy story. You're welcome.

There are a few Ned stories I've been meaning to tell you, and I get distracted, which is not like me. The first one I will tell you is, well. You know how mostly up till now you've been liking Ned? This may change you, and I'm sorry. I know I had him being all likable, and now Ima turn him into Jack Berger.

The first person to smugly say, "I've never watched Sex and the City, June" gets an indifferent look from me.

Okay, Ned's not Jack Berger. But here's what happened. Brace yourself.

Ned refused to watch Footloose with me.


We were looking to see what was on, and I said, "Oooo! Footloose!" and Ned said, "I've never seen Footloose, as you can imagine." Really? Just because it's mainstream and doesn't make you want to take your life and the lives of every other theater-goer when the credits go up? Just for that, you're saying it's not the movie for you?

"But it has Sarah Jessica Parker in it," I told him. "And dreamy Kevin Bacon when he was still dreamy." What do he and Kira Sedgwick do, over there? Do they split one leaf of lettuce a week? They are the world's most undernourished couple. I mean, other than actual couples in actual countries where there is no, you know, food. But I'm referring to couples we actually think about, such as celebrity couples.

So we turned on Footloose, and we got to see the slutty preacher's daughter straddle two cars, and what a jerk that girl was. She spends the entire movie posing so that if she were naked, we could give her a full gynocological exam on the spot. Sexy. Feminine.

ObgynAnyway, Ned watched it until we got to this scene.

"Okay, no. I cannot," said Ned, who seems to have an issue with men dancing in warehouses, like that never happens in real life or something. "I mean, once he saw this in the script, he wasn't able to say 'Nuh-uh, nope. Give this role to someone else.' He couldn't do that?"

So, I understand if you no longer like Ned. I'm trying to concentrate on his other redeeming qualities.

Oh, and the other thing I wanted to tell you was that the other night I was on the horn with Ned. Ned comes home, works out for like TWO HOURS, I am not even kidding you, then if we don't see each other, he calls me. He is usually cooking something when he calls me, and eats at 9:00 like he's from Madrid or something.

So the other night Ned was starving, the way he always is after WORKING OUT FOR TWO HOURS, and he said he had a sweet potato in the oven. Yes, I know he needs more protein, I tell him that all the time. Anyway, he noted his sweet potato needed an hour and a half to cook.

"There is no way I could live like that," I told him. "I'd be so starved after working out that I'd be hangry, and then if you told me I had to wait for a goddamn sweet potato to cook, I'd just go to a drive-thru."

Say, June, why the cholesterol?

"It'll be done soon enough," said Ned. "And I have green beans, too!"

The next morning, Ned emailed me. "Last night, after waiting an hour and a half for my sweet potato to finish baking, I opened the oven to discover that I had never turned it on. This was not welcome news. Any normal person might have noted the lack of baking sweet potato scent wafting through the apartment, but I, however, did not. As a result, I had green beans for dinner last night, and, currently, I AM STARVING."

Poor Ned. And does it make me the world's worst middle-aged-woman friend that I found that fucking hilarious?

Also, my advice to Ned was to get something dreadful out of the vending machine at his work, and I am certain he ignored me.

I can't go around hungry like that. I mean, I just can't. I get too angry, really.

Okay, those are my Ned stories. Remind me to tell you about how he and I went out to eat last night and my throat closed up. It's a fun story!

Here, as your reward for slogging, is Freaky Friday, from Becky.

I think I may have shared this once in the comments but thought I would submit it anyway.
In 2008, my husband went to India for a few weeks because his dad was in a diabetic coma. One night, around midnight, Lizzy, my 3-year-old, came into my room and asked, "Who is that man standing in the corner in my room?" I quickly slammed my bedroom door (you know, to protect us from the ghost), grabbed her into bed with me, and hid under the covers. My other daughter was sleeping down the hall, and I love her, but apparently not enough to go past Lizzy's room to get to her.
I don't know if she really saw anything or if she dreamed it. She never had dreams like that before or after, so I kind of like to think that it was her grandfather she had never met, saying goodbye. I called my husband to make sure that he hadn't passed that night and he was still in a coma. He died about two weeks later, never having woken up to ask him about it.
Freaky Friday · Friends · June's stupid life

Take a letter, Maria. The letter “F.” For Freaky Friday.

Guess what I still don't have. I STILL don't have permission to tell Hulk's story. Oh my god I am the worst. I will tell it as soon a I can.

In the meantime, Marty Martin and his girlfriend Kayeeee and Ned and I went to a Scrabble tournament, as you do. I know you're sick and tired of hearing me say how much I like to play Scrabble. Put down the TILES, June, and get out and enjoy the day.

IMG_0230I haven't played Scrabble in probably 30 years, but it turns out it was kind of fun. Plus, there were heavy hors d'oeuvres.

IMG_0240Because it was a tournament, Ned and I played as a team against those mother effers Marty and Kayeee. See every time it says "if" or "peed"? Guess who came up with those? Was it the brain trust of Team Ned&June? Although fatwa was ours.

IMG_0239Ned thought of that one. I thought of peed. Did we really need to explain that?

The important news is, we won. At least the first game. Then those competitive assholes who I never really l iked in the first place won the second one.


IMG_0244Because no board game would be complete without a photo of me. Open the door! Are you ready for your Mystery Date? Oh, let me get the door! It's ACCCKKKKKK! It's a haggard old woman!

Anyway. There were then raffles and none of us won 10 pounds of sausage, which, GODDAMMIT.

So that's all I have to say about Scrabble. I don't have tile for more. It was a capital time. I'm blocked; I can't think of any more jokes. But it was a red-letter evening. Okay, enough. There's no time to scrabble for more anecdotes.


Here is today's Freaky Friday story. Y'all know how organized I am. Have I told this one before? I've READ them all, so now it's getting hard to keep track.


We live in a 99 year-old house. Since we moved here, one of our dogs has a room that he will not go in. He just stands in the the doorway and whines or sometimes growls a little while looking forlornly into it. Except for one time when I could hear him from upstairs, I came running down and he was laying in the middle of the room, crying inexplicably.

There were other unusual occurrences, doors slamming when no windows were open, lights on in rooms where you could swear you had turned them off, and a feeling that something has brushed just past you and when you looked down thinking you were going to pet one of the dogs, nothing was there. My daughter swears someone (thing?) is always turning off her curling iron. We joked that we had a ghost, a seemingly benevolent one, and randomly began calling him Walter.

One summer evening we noticed some people standing on the sidewalk looking up at our house. Our son recognized the man as one of the teachers at school. We had heard that he had lived in our house several years before, so we walked out and introduced ourselves. We chatted for a bit until the couple asked us if we had met “the ghost.” Of course we asked them to tell us more about it. Basically, they described the exact same situations we had been experiencing with one exception, almost all of their encounters (including an incident with a wall that wouldn’t take paint-creepy eh?) had occurred in the pantry instead of in the dining room/front room.

Unusually, another one of my son’s teachers had also lived in our house. I guess a house doesn’t get to be almost 100 years old in a college town without going through quite a few tenants. She too asked my son if we had met “the ghost,” described similar occurrences and reiterated the couple’s assertion that he lived in the pantry.

We continued co-existing peacefully with Walter, even taking to greeting him when we walked in the door. After we had been here a few years, my son and I went to the historical society to do some research on our house. We found out two things…

The house had gone through several remodels, and the room that now torments our poor sweet black lab, used the be the pantry!

While reviewing resident registries from the 1940s, I ran across a listing for a man named Walter Phillips at our address. When I saw it, I tapped my son on the arm and pointed to the listing, he read it and we both just sat there, feeling kinda freaky. We couldn’t explain why we had decided to call our ghost Walter any more than we could explain the things that were happening that we credited him with.

I did a bunch of research trying to find out more about him, see if perhaps he had died here. So far I’ve not been able to come up with anything. So for now, he remains the mysterious soul occasionally messing with our family,  but mostly the dog.–Donna

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Get’chur freak on. It’s Friday.

It's time for another installment of our weird Friday stories. This person just identifies herself (I THINK this was a girl. She emailed me in scented font) as a longtime lurker. She wants me to make up a name for her, so Ima call her Yardena Almog.

(Come out and delurk today, if you have always lurked. Just say, Hey, June. Love your ass.)

Okay, here it is.

I was driving home one night and at a stop sign I was randomly reminded of a childhood friend who died in a gang-related accident when I was 14… sad, sad. Anyway, I hadn't thought of him in over 20 years! But, for whatever reason, at this stop light, I suddenly thought of him and his death and how he was my first crush and one of the best people I had ever met in my short life. I wondered about his family and wondered what he'd be like today if he were still alive. I recalled fun memories of school, the neighborhood pool, and general neighborhood shenanigans. The rest of the drive was a walk down memory lane. I was sad and nostalgic.

I was thinking about the tragic way he died and I wondered if, now with the internet and the "information age," I could find something online about his death and the incidents surrounding it — I never did get a full story of what exactly happened. I started to get excited that I could read more about it. So, as soon as I got home, I Googled him and looked for old newspaper articles that would give details. I was disappointment to see that the only thing on the internet about him was the information about where he was buried; it gave the plot number and his headstone information, etc. Nothing about the incident surrounding his death. I was bummed.

But then I looked more closely at the dates listed for his life and realized that I was suddenly thinking about him, Googling him and reading about him on his birthday! It was sooo freaky to realize that I thought about him on his birthday! I really did feel like he reached out to me from "the great beyond." For what reason, I have no idea, but I felt really good about remembering him and honoring his memory on his birthday.

Anyway, now that it's written down, it doesn't seem so dramatic, but it was really weird to experience it. Happy Freaky Friday, Yardena Almog.

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Get Freaky with June: Down by the Old Mill ACCCCK! Edition.

This week we hear from Amy in MD.

I've lived in several haunted houses. The house I lived in growing up had a child ghost. You could never hear it when many people were in the house, but if you were alone in the house and stood in my bedroom, you could hear the sound of a ball bouncing on the front steps. I had this verified by another friend who happened to be in there when we were all elsewhere and asked me why it sounded like somebody was bouncing a ball when there was nobody out there. I found that house incredibly creepy in other ways and hated to be alone there, but most of it was probably my overactive imagination.

The house I rented prior to buying my current house had a long history. Originally a tobacco barn, it was renovated so that the farmer's daughters could live there. It had served as the office for the town newspaper, as a post office, and as a jail. I couldn't keep lights off there. Every day when I came home from work one or more lights would have been turned on.

My current house has had the most active hauntings. It was built in 1871, so lots of time for ghosts to accrue. I've seen several scary apparitions. The first was the worst. I jolted awake, screaming, terrified for no obvious reason. I couldn't remember dreaming. I opened my eyes and there was something between me and the ceiling. Just a dark…something. In the darkened room I should have been able to see the ceiling easily in the light from the street lamp.I was shaking so hard to that it took me a while to turn on the light, but when I did there was nothing. I did the sage blessing thing and blessed the heck out of that bedroom, and never saw anything in it again. But I didn't do the rest of the house.  

A while later I moved into the guest room so I could paint my bedroom, and had a couple of scary events there. I woke up because someone was wiggling my toe, the way my parents used to do to wake me up if they were standing at the foot of the bed. Nobody was there, of course. I sleepily mumbled "Stop it" and went back to sleep. Why that didn't terrify me more than a visual ghost, I have no idea. The next night, I woke up to find a man (dressed like he was in a barbershop quartet) leaning over me. He was standing through the bed — the mattress cut him off at mid-thigh. He was pretty memorable, with his old fashioned mustache and striped shirt. After that I slept with the light on until I moved back into my own room. If there were ghosts in the room I didn't want to know.

The child living across the street whose bedroom window faces mine asked why my light was on all night, and I made the mistake of telling her.  After that I noticed she started sleeping with her light on, too.  Oops.

Most of the activity in my house has happened when I've been doing construction.  It's like the house wakes up a little bit.  After a few months everything settles back down again.  We haven't had any ghostly visitations in years now and I'm pretty happy about that.

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

June screams over to drop off a Freaky Friday

Sorry I've been too busy to blog. I blame this pesky job and also Ned. But here. Have a freaky story from Outkast Lee.
My father-in-law (FIL) died 9 months after my mother-in-law (MIL). After my FIL's funeral, everyone went back to his house for coffee. I had washed the last coffee cup he used the day before and put it on a high shelf in the cupboard, next to the MIL's cup, They were the last 2 pieces of china from their wedding china and I didn't want anything to happen to them.

I  knew we had coffee, but I couldn't find the coffee. The relatives tried to help me, but after searching every nook, cranny, cabinet and shelf, we still found no coffee. They went to Shoney's for their caffeine fix and my husband just wanted to stay home. We watched TV until bedtime.

That night I dreamed about my MIL and FIL. My MIL has stitches were her neck had been sliced open for embalming (?). She had cut the yard and made raisin pie. She and my FIL were now drinking coffee and eating pie. They were giving me information about money and investing, I really don't remember the exact directives unfortunately. It went on and on.
Suddenly I was awakened by the powerful smell of coffee. I wandered sleepily to the kitchen and flipped on the light. There on the table were the two wedding china cups with coffee residue in the bottom of each one. There was a spoon on the table with a bit of coffee pooled under it. I woke my husband and we searched again for coffee. No coffee. He went back to bed. I washed the coffee cups and put them in a box. I took them out to the garage, just to get them out of the house.The lawnmower was out of place and covered with grass, something the FIL fussed about the MIL doing, cutting the grass and not cleaning it off. It smelled like fresh grass.
When I went back out of the garage, I noticed the grass was newly cut. I didn't sleep a wink that night. My husband refuses to speak of it.
His parents were modest people but it turned out they were misers. They left my husband $335, 00.00! These people ate day old fruit pies they warmed up on the floor furnace and bought 1/2 price dented cans. 
Sad to say, my husband and I separated and I was stuck at the in-law's house. He moved into our house and managed to blow all the money on cocaine for him and all the friends he no longer has. We got back together but he was broke and fresh out of rehab Luckily, I had hidden an insurance check in his name that came in the mail. We were able to sell both houses and got a new house the drug dealers didn't know about with the money from the houses and the check I hid. I always wondered what advice his parents were trying to give me that evil night. If I remembered what they were telling me, could I have avoided the drama?
When we were packing to move, I found a will his FIL had signed the week before he died, leaving all his money to his church. I burned that sucker!
Freaky Friday · June's stupid life

Get Freaky with June: Transsexual Fish Edition

It's Friday, so it's time for another of your freakazoid stories. And, yes, I too love me for saying, "freakazoid." While we're at it, let me tell you that there's no parking, baby. No parking on the dance floor.

Anyway. Before I turn you over to this week's story, let me tell you about the deep and abiding love my dogs have for me. Which by the way is impressively deep. And abiding.

I went home for lunch on Thursday, as I am wont to do because I live close to work and that is a luxury I am still not over, having lived in LA for so long. So, there I was, eating my Weight Watchers-approved lunch of air and plain water, and I decided to turn on the TV. If I'm home at 1:00 I can watch Sex and the City, for a change, because I don't know every episode within the first 10 seconds of watching one or anything.

But I was home at noon, so instead I flipped around, not literally, and found Marley & Me.

I don't know if you recall when I saw it in the theater, but it was not sophisticated. I was still married to Marvin, and the mob. My mother and stepfather had come for Christmas. While they were visiting, I'd requested we see Marley & Me, since my mother has dogs and so do I and so on. But they wanted to see Milk, the movie where Sean Penn is a gay guy.

"We can go to the refrigerator and see milk for free," I tried, but everyone had to be all thinky and liberal and enjoy the shit out of a gay guy being killed. Afterward, we all listened to NPR and drove hybrids and gave peace a chance.

As soon as my mother and stepfather were gone, I said to Marvin, "Let's go see Marley & Me." But Marvin was teaching then, and he was sick every five minutes with some new thing a germy child had given him, and he very dramatically splayed on the couch and droned on about his sickyness. So I went without his punk ass. I shoulda just called Ned.

Do you ever do that? Do you ever think about times before you knew someone you love currently, and think about how you were once at that restaurant six seconds from their house, or that you know for sure you were at the same event once? Or do you ever think about a time you felt blue, and if you'd only just known your person back then, you coulda called him or her and things woulda been better?

Well, I do. But I'm a freak. Azoid.

The point is, I went to the movies, and it was still Christmastime, so the theater was packed with families seeing films, and there I was, completely alone, and I recall my hair was particularly dreadful that day, as I did not know the Curly Girl Method yet, so hello frizzazoid.

I hate to break it to you, but eventually in that movie, the dog dies. Okay? He dies. And other people in the theater were sniffing politely, getting out tissues as unobtrusively as possible. And I


Dudes. I was crying so loudly, and so ludicrously, that people turned to look at me. When the lights went up, I got my sobby fright wig self the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

And do you think my second viewing of that movie yesterday was any better? As soon as Marley started slowing down, I got teary. Then when he got sick, I started crying. By the time that dog actually expired, I was crying so hard I thought I might barf.

The whole time this was happening, Tallulah remained in bed, where she was having her afternoon nap, as opposed to her morning nap and the one she likes to take after sunset, just before bed. I was crying so hard that Edsel didn't even understand I was calling him. He'd been sunning himself on the deck.

"Edddddddd{hic!} Edshuhuhuhuhul! Come here, Edsss-sobbb!" Eventually, he caught on, and came trotting in. He finally remembers that he learned how to open the screen door. He'd taught himself to do it, taught Tallulah how to do it, then completely forgot he knew, and for about a year would just stand underbitedly at the door after Talu had opened it with her snout.

Anyway, he trotted in, took one look at my contorted face and trotted right back out again.

IMG_2535edz luff to stay and chat, but he gots…theeng to do. sy co mom.

I mean, isn't the POINT of a dog that he's THERE for you when you're crying hysterically over an Owen Wilson movie? Why else do you tolerate the dirt, the barking, the eating of cat poop, and the fur fur fur all over the place? Isn't that their ONE redeeming quality?

IMG_1885yuu rayse good poynt, mom. lu theenk it….it…..zzzzzzzzz.


Okay anyway, on to Freaky Friday, written this week by my pal Sleeping Beauty. If you have a strange story, email it to me at byebyepie.typepad.com.


About 10 years ago I was on a shoot for a National Geographic documentary about transsexual fish (don't ask). We were filming a little fishy colony off of Catalina Island with some scientists. You may remember Catalina Island as the place where Natalie Wood bit it, and you may also know that there are sharks in the deep waters surrounding it.

I was the only member of the film crew and scientists who didn't know how to SCUBA dive, so while everyone was SCUBA-ing down below our dive boat with the transsexual fishies, I was snorkeling around the boat by myself.

The water was a beautiful light blue milky color reflecting sunshine, and tall stands of flowing kelp were all over the place. I'm paddling around enjoying the water when suddenly I get a bizarre and indescribable feeling that I need to get out of there right away. No reason—I didn't see anything menacing or unusual; just the sun shining through the blue water and the kelp fronds here and there. But something told me to paddle back to the boat NOW. So I did, and I scrambled out of the water and into the boat as fast as I could. I never saw anything, and my colleagues soon resurfaced.

Next day we got a report there had been a great white shark attack in exactly the area where we were working, maybe a half hour after we were there. I also learned that sharks cannot only receive electrical signals alerting them to other animals' presence—they can send them too. I'm fairly certain that indescribable feeling I got was an electrical pulse sent from a great white shark, probably just feet away from me in that milky blue water off Catalina Island.

Freaky Friday · June's stupid life · Sports

Get Freaky with June: Lob That Ball Edition

Yesterday was my big Ping-Pong match against Alex #4858493 at work, as part of a big Ping-Pong championship we're having for no reason whatsoever. She and I decided to have a practice round at lunch, before our 2:30 game. After, I emailed Ned. "Even though I've practiced with other people at work, Alex #4858493 and I had a good rhythm going. We hit it back and forth a ton of times, rather than once and losing the ball. We knew each other's moves. It was like good sex."

"That's wonderful, June," said Ned, who is over me thinking everything is like sex. "But perhaps what you didn't know is the point of Ping-Pong is to beat your opponent, not hit it back and forth a bunch of times."

"But it's more FUN to hit it back and forth a lot!" I said.

Anyway, at 2:30 I naturally had a work thing I had to finish, and I.am.sure., but at about 2:40 we headed down there. A coworker managed to film some of the riveting events of the afternoon.

Wow, did You Tube just give you EVERY VIDEO I'VE EVER MADE? Because that's annoying. Just watch that first one. You can barely see me, I'm such a blur of athletic prowess. The second one is something I recorded for Marvin's benefit, as the guy singing was being the instruments, and I used to tell Marvin not to do that all the time. We'd be in the car and some song would come on and he'd start going, "Chh-ch-ch-chhh.." and I'd be all, "Don't be the cymbal." Or "boom boom boom boom boom." And I'd be all, "Don't be the bass."

Anyway. My point is, I lost 5-11, 5-11 and 6-11. Which, you know. Shut up. Everyone's bracket was right; EVERYONE had me losing to Alex #4858493. Which is disappointing. Like bad sex.

In other news, and then I will get to Freaky Friday, this is happening.

IMG_3107That? Is not snow. It's all ice pellets. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? With the weather already. They canceled work altogether, so I can't weigh in at my Fat Club meeting, but I did weigh myself on the scale at work, which coincidentally is a Weight Watchers scale, and it said I lost another three pounds. I was so excited that I went over to The Poet's cubicle, where she had chocolate coconut cookies, so I ate one.


Anyway, I'll log in to work email, but I feel like today there's gonna be a lot of this.

and this

Okay, are you ready for this week's Freaky Friday story? I've gotten a lot of them. Here we go. from Faithful Reader Tammy…


My grandmother MaMa (pronounced maw maw) and I were very, very close. I was the oldest granddaughter, and she was the first person I would call whenever there was something going on in my life. MaMa was one of the kindest, most loving people I had ever known and would go out of her way to make you feel special.

She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer shortly after my first child was born. Being a nurse (even a 21-year-old, fresh-out-of-nursing-school nurse), I knew it was bad. So did she, although she underwent extensive treatment at the insistence of my mother and her other children. We would have long talks about the things she would miss after she was gone, and one of them was seeing her future great-grandchildren. She died in December of 1990…one of the absolute worst times of my life.

In 1992, I had just given birth to my second child, Holly. While it was obviously a happy time, part of me was sad knowing MaMa wasn't there to see her. She had been on my mind a lot since we had brought Holly home.

We had been home from the hospital for two days. When we got ready for bed, I put the baby in the bassinet at the foot of our bed and covered her with a blanket. Around three in the morning, I was jolted awake–not by the baby crying, but the feeling of a presence in the room. I immediately looked to the bassinet…and there was MaMa, leaning over and looking at my newborn. I watched her pull the blanket off Holly so she could see her from head to toe. MaMa had such a look of love and wonder on her face, and it sounds totally crazy, but I could smell her in the room! I just stared with my mouth hanging open for a moment (although it could have been much longer), then I said "MaMa?" When I spoke, she turned and looked at me and smiled…and faded slowly until she was gone. I got up to check on the baby, and the blanket I had covered her with was in the floor about two feet from the bassinet. MaMa's smell permeated our room. It was magical. Thinking about it now makes me tear up. 

I have never seen her again, except in my dreams. It's funny, every time I dream of being in a house, or being home I dream that I'm in MaMa's house. The people in my dreams may change, but it's always her house.