Give June a doll box from 1972, and you’ve given her the world

I just heard myself tell the dog, “I just washed that floor,” as he skidded in with muddy paws, and now I have officially become my mother.

Then I realized that no, I actually did not wash this floor this weekend, making me officially my grandmother when the dementia set in.

I did wash a lot of floors, though, as folk were traipsing in and out of this abode all weekend to peer at little cats. And I’ve noticed a lot of willy-nilly use of the word “catten” around here, lately, so let’s review.

IMG_4243.jpgThis is a kitten.

IMG_4225.jpgSo is this.

IMG_4231.jpgNot a trick–also a kitten.

IMG_4274.jpgCAT. Now with catnip!

IMG_4220.jpgKittens with a cat.

IMG_4278.jpgKitten. By the way, if you don’t want litter every fucking where, don’t get that Feline Pine. I’ve already replaced it, after spending 394949394 hours sweeping, including sweeping the dog bed, an indignity I did not foresee.

Anyway, back to our review.


IMG_4275CAT. He truly enjoyed his first foray into the ‘nip. You’ll be stunned to hear he’s kind of a mean drunk, with the swinging at me, a behavior that he does not usually indulge in, except with Ned. He always swung at Ned.

Anyway, none of what you just saw were cattens. CATTENS, which I believe is an official made-up term, are almost-grown kittens, like when you have, say, an eight-month old kitten. They’re almost there, in full-grown bitchy catness (see directly above) but not quite there. They’re still a bit gangly.

To sum, my house has a lotta fucking cats in it right now. And yes, I swept up that catnip along with the eleventy pounds of Feline Pine.

This is a video that Alex took, when she was here this weekend, and you will note the Feline Pine ON MY BOOTS. I was Feline-n-Boots.

IMG_4239.jpgAlso arriving this weekend were Chris and Lilly and their offspring, which the kittens were fine with and Edsel wasn’t. At one point, he leaped behind me to hide when a child had the nerve to look at him.

I haven’t had this many visitors in my room in one weekend since college.

I’ll be here all week.

Note I spent all that money on fabric propped up, there, and have never recovered my chair. What the hell is wrong with me?

I left the house only sporadically this weekend, because kittens. Dragged self to that Daniel Day Lewis movie, the one that’s nominated for Best Picture. What the hell’s it called? Anyway, it was good, and weird, which are my favorite kinds of films, but DDLewis annoys.

It just bugs me how everyone goes on about what a fabulous actor he is, and how for three months he just was Abraham Lincoln and so forth. Oh, shut up. Stop being fucking Abraham Lincoln. Just pretend. It’ll have the same effect. No one wants to deal with you going around being Abraham Lincoln, you self-important twit who plays house for a living.

Oh, your craft. Fuck you.

Anyway, so I went to the movies. Saw Daniel Day Lewis. He was a dress designer this time. Do you think he went around making dresses all day, like when we had Fashion Plates?

Screen Shot 2018-01-29 at 8.03.42 AM.pngThat’s some outfit she’s designing. “Yes, I envision a patchwork jumper, with a fine school-bus-orange scoop-neck T under it.”

3ed464f129504811f4c56ecbbdcf791f--childhood-toys-childhood-memories.jpgAlso, while I was up, Googling, “What the hell was that dress-designing toy I had when I was a kid?” I came across this motley crew. I think I had that box, and I’m not sure why, because my Free-to-be-You-and-Me-As-Long-As-You’re-a-Feminist mother was not all that keen on me having Barbie-esque things, which made them all the more tempting. But first of all, which one’s Dawn, and where did she get these jakey friends?


We’ve got the Hungover, Walk-of-Shame friend.


Cross-Eyed, Dude-That’s-a-Shirt-Not-a-Dress friend.


Slept-With-Santa-Souvenir-Belt-n-Boots friend.


Experimenting-With-Lesbianism friend, whose wellies I do admire.


Cockeyed-Boobs friend, now with parentheses hair.


Could this be Dawn? Because she looks like someone who’s rethinking her choices.

“Jesus, what cockamamie sorority am I even in? Fucking Ken and his goddamn roofie.”

I like how the girls on the box have nothing to do with these yahoos out front. And who’s the fruitcake on guitar? Oh, I see. He’s eyeing up ol’ Snappy Dancer, on the right. Ascot flying. You know you got a live one when his ascot goes flying.

I’m sorry. I may need to reenact all the girls’ dance moves.

Photo on 1-29-18 at 8.17 AM #3.jpgphoto-on-1-29-18-at-8-17-am-4.jpgPhoto on 1-29-18 at 8.18 AM #2.jpgOh, by the way, I couldn’t find the pajama bottom that matched this top, nor the top that matched this bottom, so I said fuck it and wore this to bed. You’re welcome.

Also, the webcam reversed all the moves, which I guess I should have figured out, but spatial relations. So.

Well, it’s been a pleasure, and I’m glad I stuck to one subject and did not at all get distracted. That’s what matters. Also, I kept my dignity.

Your friend of Dawn,


Does my new computer make my arse look big? Are you sick of that joke yet?

This is my inaugural post on my new computer. Please note I received said new computer back in December, way back then, but it’s been Sisyphean hell trying to migrate all my old info into the current day. I worked harder on getting to the present day than that guy in Back to the Future.

I worked on getting to the present day harder than Dorothy Gale. Which works better?

How about neither, June.

So I’m on this new keyboard, and you know how when you zipped right out and bought the millennial version of Monopoly and that vellum money didn’t quite feel right? What do you mean I’m the only yahoo who went out and got millennium Monopoly?


You should see the current-looking cell phone they have, as one of the millennium-edition game pieces. I think the good folks at Monopoly should’ve thought harder about evergreen pieces.


An iron never goes out of style. Granted, that style of iron was last used by Mary Todd Lincoln, who because she was crazy thought it was a cell phone from the year 2000.


Poor Mary Todd Lincoln. She probably wasn’t crazy at all. Probably Abraham Lincoln was a love avoidant. THAT WILL MAKE ANY WOMAN SQUIRRELLY.

Abe was probably having outside intrigue with John Wilkes Booth, as part of his love avoidance issue; hence the drama in the theater. I wonder if the people at the theater got their money back?

I didn’t take any Ritalin today.

Come on, June. You can’t be serious. With this laser-sharp post?

No one names their kid Abraham anymore.


Before I spin into infinity, behold Roundest Raspberry, today’s Clinique Chubby Stick color. Yesterday I photographed Super Strawberry and slid it in, so to speak, at the bottom of yesterday’s post a few hours after I wrote you. So if you read first thing you missed that scintillating shot. You can still see it. A blog post is forever. By Judy Blume.

I’m sorry to tell you we have only two more lip colors to peruse: Voluptuous Violet, and what I really like is when people pronounce it “volumptuous.” THERE IS NO M IN THAT WORD.

And finally, Grand Mal Grape. No. Grandest Grape. I dearly wish I could see. Remember back when you could see? What the hell with that. You could see far away and up close, like it was normal. Now it’s Flight of the Bumble, over here, as I reach for the right glasses.

Anyway, as I was saying 472 paragraphs ago, it’s been Sisyphean trying to get this computer to take on the six years of endless stuff I did to the old machine. I have a total Baby New Year/Old Year situation going, and even when I was a kid, I never understood how a year, who was a year old, got so old in, you know, a year.

old-man-baby-new-year.pngDid I ever tell you my favorite horrible thing I did? It was new year’s day, 2005, and Marvin and I were headed somewhere. On the corner was this poor old man, looking shoddy. And I said, “Oh, look! It’s 2004!”

This is why I’m single.

I also get bugged when they have movies set in some old time, like the Middle Ages, and everything looks old. Like, thatched roofs look old. THEY’D LOOK NEW. The Middle Ages weren’t the Middle Ages for the people living in them. They were RIGHT NOW. And their shit looked new. Their copy of The Power of Now was brand-new.

Say, June, what say you, oh, pop a Ritalin and come back in a few.

OH MY GOD MY POINT, is that last night, I got home from work and had half an hour of freedom before I had yet another call with AppleCare to set this computer up some more, and I feel like people think that a single woman with a full-time job, four pets she solely cares for, freelance work and allegedly an exercise regime has time to talk.

After I fended off 11teen texts and calls for that half an hour, I got on the horn with AppleCare. Our biggest problem was that the photos weren’t switching over. I explained to the latest AppleCare guy–they’re almost always guys–that I blogged, apologized for still blogging, then told him I took photos of my everyday life every day.

“About how many photos do you think you have on your computer, ma’am?”

I did some quick maths.

Oh, June.

Let’s see. I had this computer for six years, and there are 365 days in a year…

“About 3,000,” I announced.

Finally, we located my photos. They HAD transferred over, but they’d landed in a weird place. But there they were, and we opened the Photos app.

And: 32,300. That’s how many photos I had. 32,300.

“That’s, heh, not 3,000,” the AppleCare guy mansplained to me. LIKE I’M AN IDIOT WHO CAN’T DO MATH OR…oh.

The only downside is I seem to have lost any photo I took from December 30 to January 1, but hoooo care. Also, after we hung up last night, I started deleting photos. I don’t NEED to, as this new computer is OHMYGOD so fast, but it’s just the idea. It was bugging me, having that many blurry, dumb, needless photos.

Currently I have 29,931 photos. LOOK AT JUNE GO.

Laura Ingalls Wilder had seven photos her whole life. But okay.

“But June, in the show, she…” Oh, shut up. That goddamned show.

I’d better get to work. That task is back. Remember that task I had that made me miss the work Halloween party, and later the work Christmas party? It’s back. Maybe it’ll make me miss Martin Luther King Day. Last year, we, as usual, did not have the day off, and all the people of color called in sick. It was a very Norma Rae moment, and now this year we have MLK Day off.

I’ll see you tomorrow. I want you to be emotionally prepared for VoluMPTuous Violet Bicks.


“Oh, this old thing? Why, I only wear it when I don’t care WHAT I wear.”

Violet Bicks was probably raised by a Love Avoidant. Or maybe she was the granddaughter of Abraham Lincoln.




I have a new thing that bugs me: Women using that video-making feature where their eyes are huge, and their lips are gigantic, and their voices are distorted. Perhaps you’re hilarious, person making a video while sitting in a car, which, woooo! How could you NOT be, with that original venue? But I see that damn exaggerated-features look, and I can’t even click to hear one word.

Also, the kids who’ve been coached to sound world-weary when they’re four. Stop.

You all have put both of these on the Facebook of June page lately to say, “I hate these,” and I am so with you.

These videos are the 2000s version of Pagemaker. Back in the ’90s, this program got invented that let you create your own invitations and flyers and so forth, called Pagemaker (and not PageMaker. I believe it came before we started the equally annoying trend of naming everything WordThing. WordPress. TypePad. InDesign. StopIt).

Anyway, Pagemaker started the whole Secretary As Artist trend, where everyone was “designing” their own stuff, and it looked horrific. Now we have video cameras in our purses, and little special effects we can use, and suddenly everyone’s a makeshift internet comedian.

Says the woman who still blogs, for god’s sake.

You know what was funny? The woman who’d bought herself the Chewbacca mask. She wasn’t trying to get millions of viewers. She wasn’t trying to hone her “craft.” She wasn’t trying to become an Instagram star so she could quit her day job. She was just a genuinely likable person who happened to capture a funny moment.

And this is the problem, I think. The little girl dancing Gangnam style at a wedding reception is genuine. These “I planned them” videos always look, you know, planned. And they aren’t that funny.

I know I’m not the only curmudgeon, here.

Look who I’m talking to. Of course I’m not.

Other than me hating everything on the planet and still being in an angry phase, that about sums it up. I worked on something all day yesterday at work, which was fun to do, actually, but took a lot out of me. Copy editing. It isn’t laying bricks, but you’d never know that.

Anyway, I came home, realized I was out of soap and water. I am not kidding. Soap and water. So then Edsel and I went to the grocery store. I hated to leave him after I’d just gotten home and he’d started sculpting a bust in my honor and so forth.

Then I got home and said, “Is it an acceptable time to go to bed yet?” like anyone was watching. I made myself stay up till 9:00, didn’t do any freelance and hello panic, and then Eds and I slept all night except for Edsel’s one very urgent call of nature at 12:12 a.m. I swear we were back asleep by 12:14.

The only exciting news I have for you is that several months ago, maybe even a year ago, Faithful Reader Fay sent me a Hello Kitty toaster, which I use quite frequently. I’m quite the connoisseur of toast.

But all this time, I’ve been buying the pretentious bread, a habit I picked up from my…ex, the 404 Error, who gets said bread in the deli section at the store, and it’s full of the nuts and grains and it is delicious.

But this weekend, I was near the Ghetto Lion, and I needed groceries (including water and soap, but who can remember?) (here is where my mother is screeching MAKE A LIST), and they don’t HAVE rough made-in-store bread at the Ghetto Lion, so I got normal-person bread in the bread aisle, and weird, it felt.

The point is, I made toast, and



That toaster embeds a little image of Hello Kitty in the toast! My toast was too rough and unrefined and high-school educated to show it before.

IMG_1855.jpgMy life has been transfigured. Also, say “toast” one more time.

I’d better go. I’m taking Eds to the vet today, to figure out why he’s still itching and chewing, and now his stomach seems to be bothering him.

Before you give me all the advice, here’s what we’ve already tried:

  1. Changing his diet. Many times.
  2. Shots
  3. Steroids
  4. Antidepressant
  5. Another kind of antidepressant
  6. Flax seed oil
  7. Allergy medicine
  8. A different kind of allergy medicine

Someone told me to try colloidal silver, and Ima ask the vet about that today.

I can’t help having PTSD about Tallulah, and all the tests we ran, when her tumor was right there visible, had anyone, oh, looked at her little dog vagina. I have never once called it anything other than her “little dog vagina.” I don’t know why. Her LDV.

Have PTSD about a lot of things lately. Remember when life just used to be normal and I wasn’t upset? Me either. But I know it existed.

Okay, talk at you and your little dog vagina soon.

Dancing queen. Old and mean, only 52.

Yesterday at lunchtime, I stampeded across town to the damn dance store, which is its official name. Greensboro’s Damn Dance Store! We’re open stupid times!

When I got there, I realized I’d tensed up, in the worry that they’d be closed Mondays or some other similar irritating thing. But they were not! There they were, all open and shit.

I’d have taken photos, but it was really a small boutique kind of place, and there was one other person in there, a rather demanding-seeming woman over in the kids’ section. Which, by the way, seemed to dominate. And you know how I am. “Oooo, tiaras! …Oh. They’re for kids. Dammit.” “Oooo! Tote bags that read “ballet” in glitter! …Teensy, for kids. Dammit.”

A very helpful saleswoman got me m’shoes,

Hey. YOU try holding your purse, your phone AND ballet shoes and see how good YOUR photo is, fussy.

and also some yoga pants that I am delighted to report were kind of too big. Naturally, I cut the tags off them before trying them on, because that’s the kind of careful planning that’s resulted in the delicately elegant life I’ve created for myself.

When work ended, I checked the time and locale of my dance class; I’d already emailed the place to reserve a spot. It had been a lovely, warm and blowy–but not THAT kind of blowy–day, and I was happy to have a few minutes to come home and hang with the entourage, the four-legged entourage, my FURBABIES (sigh) before heading to my 7 o’clock class.

IMG_E1158.JPGThis sums up all of my quality time with Steely Dan.

there just so much of SD to luff. Have to share wif wurld.

But look. Here’s six seconds of autumnal calm, now with falling leaves!

Anyway. At 6:30. I left the house, got downtown–where I will not mention the mental status of any old men–found, like,  TV parking right outside the building, and sauntered into the “cultural” center.

I don’t know why I’m cynical about that. But you know what? I got in there, and it was pretty cool! It was so, you know, cultural. I turned into yogurt, it was so cultured.

IMG_1161.jpgI found the room where my class was to begin at 7:00, and?

Everyone was ballet-ing. Ballet-ing hard. Because the class had started 45 minutes before.

Flyer for the modern class.

I WANTED Absolute Beginner, Ballet. I read the TIME for Absolute Beginner, Modern.

I needed an Absolut.

So, I sat on a comfy metal bench, right outside the class, and watched my coworker finish his ballet, just like my parents used to have to do when I took ballet from the winged-eyeliner lady circa 1973. I talked to another parent, who was doing her homework and was probably delighted to have to hear my plight about the wrong time and so on. Then I kibitzed with my coworker when he was done, and when I got back outside, after promising to come back AT THE RIGHT TIME next week?

Storm. Don’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky. Other than the fact that it’s 7:15 in October. Stormy weather, since that man and I ain’t together. It’s raining all the am I blue.

That was only funny if you know my Am I Blue/asking gramma for the lyrics to Stormy Weather story.

You know what I like? People who don’t scroll up. Like, we’ll have a big chain of comments going, here or on Facebook of June, and someone wanders on and asks something we addressed four comments ago. I adore that.

IMG_1165.jpgAnyway, here’s an unretouched photo of JOOON, having been caught in the RAAAAAIN on the way home from dance class where she didn’t DAAAAANCE. I have no idea why I’m talking like that.

It was scary rain, scary driving rain where driving is scary.

Oooo, also, while I was waiting for my coworker last night, I noticed a particularly lovely woman, who actually I’d noticed dancing before she was even milling around after class. She looked the way a ballerina should look, and then after class, she put on the best pair of multicolored chunky heels, and I was in great admiration.

After class, I drove through the driving rain to the grocery store, and guess who was there, over in the wine aisle. So I said, “Hey, I just saw you at that ballet class,” and we ended up talking for a long time, and said, “See you next week,” and soon she will be giving me those shoes, so enamored will she be of All Things June.

Speaking of which, yesterday in Facebook of June, I asked y’all all what the most stalky thing you’ve done was, regarding me and my unblog and my life, such as it is. I’d read this subject on a Reddit thread, titled, “How far is too far for stalking our blog reads” or something like that.

I figured you’d Zillowed my house or Googled my real name or what have you.

But wow!

You’ve researched Marvin’s girlfriends and found Ned’s place of employment. You figured out where TinyTown was and sought out that author I briefly went out with.

But my favorite, my very favorite, was the person who ended up sitting behind Ned and me at a play, after we’d been long broken up and there we were, holding hands. This was last year. I’d like to throw that caveat out there. Last year, before we officially reunited for six weeks or whatever it was.

IMG_1166.JPGAnyway, here we are, NOT KNOWING a reader was behind us, texting our scandalous photo.

It should be noted said reader’s spouse was appalled by her, and this is just how men are, and why they have to be so weird is beyond me. Because of COURSE she took a photo. I would have, too.

I gotta go. Since you’re all behind me right now, you know it’s late and I haven’t showered.


Bestalked Juan


Oh, good. June.

Heyyyyy. [Walks in, throws coat on your kitchen chair. Opens your cookie jar.] Goddammit, are these raisin?

I’m tryina think of what I have to tell you, and it’s not much, so read on, won’t you?

We had drama in the comments yesterday, which amuuuuused me, because when I wrote yesterday’s brief post about my love of all things dark and intense, and first everyone was all DON’T KILL YOURSELF JOOON and then I had to come back and say, No, see, I just love–oh, never mind.

But then it got dramatic-er from there, and what’s funny about all that is when I wrote yesterday’s thing, I thought, Man, Ima get like six comments today, because this was so brief. Instead I got…hang on. Lemme look…

One hundred-and-nineteen comments!

You know what’s fascinating? Reading someone’s blog about their blog. But the point is, you never know how things will go. I remember occasionally pounding out what I think is a fabulous post: hilarious, pithy, full of the quotable lines.



“Heh. Nice job, Coot.” Like 14 of those, maybe one old school, “You’re so pretty, June.”

And I’ve answered this 149 times in 714 places, but “Nice job, Coot” was a funny family story Faithful Reader Joy told on “Tell your family stories” day. “You’re so pretty, June” is because one day I put a picture of one of the Alexes up, and everyone was all, “She’s so pretty!!!” and I got pissed off and demanded you all say I’m pretty each time you write me. Because I am a pleasure of life.

You know what’s fascinating? Reading someone’s blog about their blog. Also, when someone refers to their work as “yesterday’s thing.”

Let’s look at m’pictures.

IMG_E0984.JPGOne of the Alexes had her last day of work, and I photographed it for posterity. She was one of the Five Minutes of Glory group. One of the people I work with found this absolutely ridiculous unpublished book, and for five minutes every day, we’d gather at 4:30 and read from it for five minutes. You’ve never known a group of people to adore bad writing more than our Five Minutes of Glory group. This particular Alex, above, has a British accent, so we made her be our narrator. ‘Twas classier that way.

IMG_0983.JPGShe celebrated one last banana o’clock, and off she went, to pastures that couldn’t possibly be green as ours.

IMG_E0986.jpgAlso, I captured on film Blind Gladys Knight and her Pips, over there. Dark As Night and the Pips.

not a pip. resent.

Lily’s eye is getting better, although she still kind of walks around with bitchy resting face. Would you like to annoy me? Call it resting bitch face. THAT MAKES NO SENSE.

edz do lillee impresh. heeeeeeeee…

IMG_E1018.JPGI gotta hang around more actual people and not four-legged beasts. Look how SD is scrunching poor Iris. fuk persnal spayce.

IMG_1026.jpgIMG_E1022.JPGIMG_1021.JPGI let Edsel go with me to the store to pick up more migraine meds yesterday, and what I like about Eds is that he’s always delighted to see me. A five-minute run to pick up meds and he greets me like (wait for it) Melanie when Ashley returns, all lousy from the war.

Have we already discussed the over/under of Ashley gettin’ a little man love while he was in the trenches? I believe we have, as I seem to recall insinuating that Ashley might not’ve needed a trench situation to rustle up a little man love. I believe I suggested that a Wednesday in the library would be enough for Ashley to decide, “Oh, we’re in a crisis. Let’s kneel.”

“I must admit this latest Proust did not meet my expectations. Perhaps a look at your naked bum would salve my literary wounds.”

One thing you have to admire about me, YOU HAVE TO, is my hatred of folk stays consistent. Although I do have to admit to coming around a little on Price Charles.

Camilla can still suck it.

I’d better go. This is my last free night till Monday, so I plan to live it up with a big night of staying in. Not to be pretentious, not to be Ashley Wilkes and his closet, but have you watched The New Yorker Presents? You can stream it on the Amazon. Not a big woman, but the network.

A real woman could stop you from drinking.

It’d have to be a really big woman.

Name that movie, NOT PAULA.



Certain the neighbors enjoy me blasting Tom Petty at 7:53 a.m.

Under last night’s waxing gibbous, I found myself at the Full Moon Oyster Bar, in the company of a man. A gentleman caller. A swain.

This is not he. “Wow, June, he looks just like a bar.”

It was not our first date. I kind of hope it will not be our last. Also, I did not eat any oysters. You know, I used to. Back in my devil-may-care Seattle days.

Do you know what I never actually have had? Is any devil-may-care days. I’ve had younger-and-just-as-neurotic days, sure. Probably the times I had oysters were far drunker times. My devil-may-Coors days.

Anyway, it’s early yet, but so far this guy is pretty good. We had our first date a month ago, a date that involved me meeting him for a drink and realizing on the way there that I was EFFING STARVED, and when I got there, he’d already ordered a cheese, meat and nut plate and it was JUST THE THING I wanted and we had a great time. I mean, not just because cheese and meat, and plus also nuts, although I’m not gonna lie to you, that was a pertinent highlight.

The next morning he wrote to say, “Listen, I know I’m not your type, but I really had a good time, and thank you.”

Here was me:


See, I love a good gif, but then when I have to watch them over and over again, I get bugged, so let’s go to a new paragraph quickly so we can scroll past it.

Okay, see, we still need more room to scroll.

[scroll scroll scroll]

MAYBE GIFS AREN’T WORTH IT. In unrelated news, I would like to kiss that German shepherd doggie right on his manly head.

Okay. So, yesterday, I finally asked this guy why he’d sent me that weird “I know I’m not your type” text.

“Really?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably. Clearly he was hoping I’d just let that pass. Do you know what I never do? Hey, June, why can’t you keep a man?

“Okay, well, look. I’m not trying to suck your dick,” he began.

See. Right then I knew.

“But I never thought I…deserved anyone like you. You’re incredibly attractive, really smart–very smart–and you’re very, very funny.”

People think I’m smart because I have good diction and a quick wit. But ask me anything about physics.

“I am hilarious,” I agreed, stealing his bread from his plate of oysters. He’d already said I could have it. Shut up. Also, do not mention my  rapidly declining attractiveness and the consumption of bread at 8 p.m. WHEN I WAS ALREADY HAVING VODKA and hey, carbs. Hey, devil-may-carbs.

“But why would you think that?” I asked. This guy is great. He’s funny, he has a job, an actual job (are you out there dating at my age? Because this is actually a going concern. You’ve no idea how many 50-year-old men out there are not exactly gainfully employed, and still they trot themselves out there. Hey, ladies…), he’s been very kind so far, and I don’t know, man. I don’t know why he doesn’t see that. I mean, I see clear as a bell what a catch I am. [plague joke goes here]

Anyway, he probably doesn’t deserve anyone like me, as he seems like a good person who does not warrant having to be to be cast into World of June. So there it is.

Oh, shit. Steely Dan is fighting with a squirrel hang on.

Unretouched photo of squirrel, sort of, having angrily and quite chirpily retired to his tree. SD stalked off, ears back. They shouldn’t discuss politics.

He–my date, not the squirrel–knows I have a blog but does not know the name of it, and anyway, I told him right off the bat not to read it because Faithful Reader Deb’s husband Peter told me years ago not to whip this monstrosity out too soon–rather someone should get all this delightful pleasure-of-life personality metered out slowly.


But anyway, I said, “I’m probably gonna mention tonight in my blog. Did you remember I have a blog?”

He remembered. Has he read it? “You know what? I have not. You told me not to, so I decided to take your advice.”

There is not a woman in America who would’ve done the same. EVERY WOMAN WOULD STAMPEDE FOR THE BLOG.

“Well, if I do talk about tonight, you’re probably gonna need a blog name,” I said, and careful readers will note I’ve gone 751 words discussing him and haven’t needed a blog name yet.

“Do I get to pick it?” he asked, sipping his manly brown liquor. “Okay, call me Ward. It’s a play on my middle name.”

Ward. Ward and June!


All 10 of you screeched, “IT’S A SIGN!” and this is why lesbians move in together on the third date. It’s not a sign, for heaven’s sake. But it was a charming coincidence.

Anyway, the point is, it’s nice to be dating someone with potential, and it was two years ago yesterday I left my Year Abroad house, so that was A SIGN. No. But I did note it.

I gotta go. I can’t talk about it, but I am still on jury duty, so. I’m tough but I’m fair.

Before I go, here’s what I think of when I think of Tom Petty.

Back in my devil-may-Coors Seattle days, my then-best-friend Esmerelda came to visit me, and we took a very manly hike up a nearby mountain (the one they show at the beginning of Twin Peaks). After, it was midafternoon and we drove past one of those tiny bars with the gravel parking lots, and we didn’t even need to say a word. We turned the car into the lot.

Our bartender was not what you’d call a handsome woman, because any woman who looks like Tom Petty is not winning any contests. We ordered a pitcher of beer because I had a designated driver date with me, a man much younger who we’d teased relentlessly all day (“If June had been dating you when I got married, I’d totally have asked you to be my ring bearer,” I remember Esmerelda saying).

The bar was my favorite kind: small, dark, with a juke box. We sat there on an absolutely beautiful sunny afternoon, listening to all the Tom Petty songs in that juke box, our feet up on each other’s chairs, drinking bad beer and laughing.

I sincerely thank Tom Petty for that afternoon.



Be happy

I just took my last prednisone that I was prescribed in order to try to break up my current cycle of migraines, and what’s more interesting than hearing about someone’s latest round of meds?

Anyway, maybe a month ago, the doctor also put me back on Topamax for migraine, June says, continuing her riveting diatribe on medication, and our goal was to slowly increase my dosage to a fairly high amount. But as of late, because of said increase in migraines, we upped it more rapidly than planned, and let me tell you. Ever since some point last week, I’ve been feeling what you might call a tad blue. Maybe a tinge under the weather.

I was not keeping my sunny side up.

To put it mildly. Good lord, I’ve been Sylvia Plath without the smooth hair.

Two years ago right at this time, Ned and I broke up, and I moved for six weeks into my friend Kayeeee’s place. She was in Connecticut, and very kindly offered me her house while she was gone. My idea was that I would take those six weeks to begin to sort of heal, to regroup, to figure out what went wrong. I decided I’d work out every day to get my endorphins going, and write in my journal, and never use “journal” as a verb the same way I’d never use “orgasm” as a verb, and do my best to get through those first six terrible weeks.

Of course, I spent those six weeks eating fish sticks and watching Eternal Sunshine till tears fell in my ears every night, and also got immediately on OK Cupid in the hopes that I’d meet someone else right away so I could stop Feeling Things.

You all know how that went. Hey, any relationship ever since.

But I DID meet someone. I met my friend Mark. He lives in Florida. In my extremely healthy attempts to not have to feel bad, I cast a wide net on OK Cupid. That site lets you tell it how many miles away you’d be willing to go to meet someone. I believe at that time I set my availability parameters to “anywhere.” Because, hey, dude in Rome. There’s real possibility here.

My friend Mark, and I’m using his real name and maybe I should change his name to protect the innocent.

…My friend Hamlet, and wow, Random Name Generator, was from Florida, which I’ve already said, and way to move the story along, June. “I know you’re in North Carolina, and we’ll never meet, but your profile is great,” he wrote. So I read his profile, and right then I knew. He was our people. He’s hilarious. You would love him.

And so a friendship was born. We talk on the phone old school, the way Romeo and Juliet did. We forward each other hopeless profiles of people who write us (Love2PutItInU wrote me and I STAMPEDED to text that nice gentlemanly message to Hamlet). I’ve heard about his romances he’s had there, I bothered him relentlessly during the hurricane (because who doesn’t want to get a link to Ridin’ the Storm Out by REO Speedwagon during a hurricane?), and he’s had to hear about my hair and also Edsel, and while I’ve had ZERO LEG via OK Cupid these last two years, I did get me a Hamlet, and I cannot complain about that.

The point of my story, here, is that he happened to call me Saturday. “Hey, how you doing?” he asked, and I burst into tears.

“I feel I may be in a lull,” I said.

“Be happy,” he told me. His daughter, when she was little, used to say that whenever things in life were terse. She thought it might just kind of cure everything, those words: lighten the mood, get her out of trouble, whatever. Be happy. It was so ridiculous that it did kind of make me laugh.

We talked awhile, and agreed I should leave the house, and of course that made me feel better, and then careful readers will recall that a hot young man of color made his move, and who wouldn’t feel better after that?

So, I’m glad I had a Hamlet intervention.

But then yesterday I got all dark tunnel again, and it finally dawned on me: It’s the goddamn Topamax. Any time I’ve taken it, I’m dark-cloud June.

The last time I took it was right after Marvin left. Oh, happy day.

And the time before that was in 2008, and it coincided with my first mammogram, when they called me to say, “We found something very suspicious, and it doesn’t look good, and prepare for the worst” and FOR THREE DAYS I SHOOK ON MY COUCH till my next appointment, when they said, Oh, this is likely nothing, but just in case, come back in six months.

Now, a normal person might, say, put that appointment out of her mind, perhaps, but what I did, because please see above–and by “above” I mean 10+ years of this not blog–and then you tell me if I strike you as a normal person. Because what I did was live under this DAMOCLES SWORD OF DOOM for six months, Googling and Web MD-ing until Marvin no longer allowed it, and then obsessing and so on, and in retrospect, I think part of my days of dark dark black dark doom, over there, were half attributable to the Topamax. I mean, that was a dark dark time of dark. Did I say that already? Have I expressed it was dark? Did I get the point across that it was a total eclipse of the dark?

So, I think I can’t take Topamax. I think it makes me sad. The end.

I’ve left a message for my doctor, she says, not The End-ing, and instead of taking two pills last night, I took one. Usually I take another in the morning, as well, and today I did not. I missed my doctor’s return call last night (he always calls me back during the Edsel walk, and I don’t know why I don’t remember to bring the phone, except I have that dog on two leashes now, plus poop bag, plus squirt bottle, and I’ve got a lot going on, man), so I hope I’m not going off this stuff too fast, but I think I am not wrong about this. Because I already feel slightly less Pit of Despair this morning.

Good gravy. Also, gravy sounds good, because prednisone.

Did I mention what’s more riveting than someone listing off her meds?


June, emerging from her pit of despair


You’re never too old for a fur ball.

I’m trying to think of what happened this weekend, but it’s such a haze, what with the heroin and all. Or, alternatively, 18 bottles of fizzy strawberry water.


Continue reading “You’re never too old for a fur ball.”

June Prissys her freelance. Also, am I your secret?

I just noticed how much Edsel anticipates my every move in the morning. First he tears down the hall ahead of me to the bathroom, which by the way is the size of a closet, but yet he must stuff his yellow arse in there with me each morning. And to think there used to be TWO dogs with the stuffing and the yellow arses in that miniature Pomeranian bathroom. How we managed that I’ll never know. Continue reading “June Prissys her freelance. Also, am I your secret?”