June’s Room of Her Own

Do you ever wish everyone would just stop talking to you? I don’t mean blog comments–I can honestly say that there hasn’t been one time I’ve gotten a blog comment and gone, UGH. A COMMENT. Goddammit. Not once. I’m always glad to get those. Continue reading “June’s Room of Her Own”

If only June would talk about doorknobs more

I noticed we weren’t guilted, yesterday, about celebrating Father’s Day on Facebook, as opposed to Mother’s Day. On that day, for every funny, cute or whatever mention someone had of his or her mom, there’d be a person kvetching that they HATE Mother’s Day, they can’t STAND to see other people celebrating it because of their personal WOES.

Lemme tell you something [pulls chair closer] [gestures drunkenly with cigarette]. Continue reading “If only June would talk about doorknobs more”

June sends loving thoughts to people who hold up the line

Last night I had a ridiculous dream. (Oh, good. Someone’s gonna describe their dream.) I dreamt I met a man and didn’t care for him at first, so when we first were introduced, I gave him my most sarcastic of smiles.

fucknatural.jpg Continue reading “June sends loving thoughts to people who hold up the line”

Let me call you Megan, I’m in love with you.

This morning, I woke up at Ned’s. Continue reading “Let me call you Megan, I’m in love with you.”

Coffee. Brakes.

I have to be brief today, as opposed to boxers, as I need to take my car in to get the brakes looked at and COME ON, GOD. Continue reading “Coffee. Brakes.”

Sort of a complainy post. (“What??”)


“So. There you go,” texted Ned (“text” Ned), as he sent me the image above.

For all the complaining I do about people saying “text” as a past-tense form of, you know, “text,” I still hear it all the time. Continue reading “Sort of a complainy post. (“What??”)”

Lime-a-Ritas with Laura Ingalls Wilder

I hate podcasts.

I’m SORRY. I’m sure your sister’s really is magnificent. Continue reading “Lime-a-Ritas with Laura Ingalls Wilder”

June starts out normal, then gets pretty kvetchy at the end

An old boyfriend of mine–from way back in the '90s when we wore clunky black shoes like it was sexy–went on a trip out west recently, and as a result has been showing photos on Facebook. "It's like a new version of making someone watch your vacation slides," he said.

The point is, he showed a photo of a bobcat, in which he said, "Here's a bobcat. Or a Robert Feline, in more formal situations."

A Robert Feline.

You know how some stupid thing strikes you as funny, and you cannot stop giggling about it like an idiot for 109 years? Or does that just happen to me?

A Robert Feline. Oh my god, it kills me. I kept waking up last night, thinking, ROBERT FELINE! then giggling myself back to sleep.

You can imagine what a not-annoying duo we made, back in the '90s, when we all taped NYPD Blue on our VCRs.

Back in the '90s, when we were all up in Susan Powter. Food doesn't make you fat! Fat makes you fat! Gimme another fat-free Entenmanns danish! I don't even NEED Jenny Craig!

Back in the '90s, when we said, Ima cut the sleeves off m'plaid shirt! That's hot. Let me spritz on a little Vanilla Fields and we're good to go!

Disclaimer: I never fucking wore Vanilla Fields.

Hey, it's the '90s! Let me put this Screaming Trees CD on the fancy five-CD changer and we can hang our goats high!

My Robert Feline, who is SICK AND TIRED of me cramming medicine down her gullet, has started venturing out a bit, and what I like is how I've managed to show you her still-good parts and none of her chawed parts. You don't want to see that; you really don't. Anyway, she's just started wandering out from the bedroom when I'm home. When I'm not, I close her in there so she'll rest and not tussle with Steely Ass.

Speaking of Shitty Dan,


I went to tie my robe today, and I was all WHAT THE FUCK, as I have nubs for robe ties now. HE ATE MY ROBE TIES.

"You need to put all your clothes away, June."

Oh, shut up.

Look at Edsel back there, feeling guilty because the cat ate my robe ties. Edz so sorry. He neber meen to bring dat cat into dis howse. He take full responsabiltee.


I've got a whole shit-ton of other exciting things happening in my life, none of which I can tell you about, and I'm sitting here thinking, Oooo, I could mention–no, I probably shouldn't. Or I could–nope. Can't tell that either.

Dammit. Just know there's stuff. When you read your tarot cards, when you get a lot of swords (you said, "swords"), it means there's a final flurry before stuff comes to fruition. I'm very sword-y phase right now with a lot of life events.


Are there a lot of big changes in your life right now, too, or is it just me? Changes at work, changes at home, changes to my neighborhood–what's up? Every woman I know except for my practical friend Lily and probably my equally practical friend Alex would say, "Is Mercury in retrograde or something?" and every man I know would be all, Change happens.

I kind of don't trust men who go in for all that shit we women like. Men who go to psychics or believe in ghosts. I also don't like men who come in for pedicures with their wives. Who started ruining pedicures for us? Whose idea was it to start dragging in their toddlers, resulting in half the pedicure chairs having purple polar bears on them, and who the fuck decided they had to bring their husbands? Can we have ANYTHING that's just us anymore? We can't even have all-women baby showers anymore, not that I like those but you know what I mean.

Anyway, I need men to be the eye-rolling ones over retrograde Mercury and so on, so I can continue to have my aura read and enjoy it. I don't know why, I just do. I need the balance.

I'll catch you later. My goal today is to show up at work with all-the-way dry hair and ALL of my makeup on. None of this finishing it in the bathroom today. Hashtag goals.

Your adult friend (finder),


P.S. Awhile back, on I think it was OK Cupid, some idiot wrote me. "Aren't you on AFF?" was all he wrote. I had no idea what that meant, so I didn't answer him. Then he had the nerve to WRITE ME BACK. Twice! "You could have at least responded." So let me tell you what. Then I DID respond. "I'm under no obligation to respond," I wrote, "and besides, your message made no sense." Only THEN did I Google fucking it and discover AFF was Adult Friend Finder, and then I was EVEN MORE MAD.

No, I'm not on Adult Friend Finder, you Immature Friend Finder. What a rude way to begin a conversation. I really feel like that's not how Prince Rainier made his initial move on Grace Kelly. You know who never in a million years would have hit the pedicure place? Prince Rainier.

Okay, bye.