Songs in the key of…where the hell are my keys?

Right before you get to my work is a funeral home. In fact, the buildings surrounding my office are doctor’s offices, an old folks’ home, and this funeral parlor. Because apparently I’m writing to you on a slate, from my log cabin near my potbelly stove with my sassafras and unicycle.

Funeral parlor.

Old folks’ home.

Consarn it.

What I’m saying to you is it’s occurred to me that death is right near me all day long.

In the morning and evenings, it’s generally not busy, the funeral parlor, but sometimes as I come back from lunch in my horseless carriage, people are filing out from a funeral, and that is when I always find myself blaring just the most awful music.

The thing is, it’s so sporadic. You can go months without hitting the funeral procession, so you get lax. But the other day, as Smack My Bitch Up was blaring out my window, I started to think about music.

Not about what a terrible person I am, but about music.

It’s occurred to me lately that most of my taste in music is because of men. (Although I have to admit, my love of Smack My Bitch Up is all my own.)

Anyway, I’m almost certain that I’ve written before about how, while looking through pictures one day, I realized that I used to look like my boyfriends as time went on. I have two photo-booth shots with different boyfriends, and our hair is alike in each one. I changed my hair to match whatever boyfriend’s.

I know I must have written about that, I just know it, but can I find it? I cannot. However, while Googling the shit outta my old blog posts, somehow I found this in Google Images…


Oh my god I TOTALLY.HAD.THIS. I want to say it was a gift from my Aunt Kathy, but maybe I just bought it for m’self. Anyway, had completely forgotten this stationery and am currently dying. Will have to go to own funeral soon. And someone can blare music past it.



The reason I like Bob Dylan and The Beatles is because of my father, who would be playing records, literally records, while I was falling asleep, and remember back when adults could just play their records and not coddle the fuck out of children? I’ve been at people’s houses, who INVITED ME OVER, then were all, “Shhhh, the children are trying to sleep.” So the fuck what? Get them used to people talking. It’ll prepare them for the dorm.

What’s your favorite Beatles song? And if you don’t like them, just don’t comment on that. It will make me like you less. I’m serious. It’s like people who say, “I just don’t like animals.” I mean, I won’t disinvite you to my wedding, but you’ll drop a notch.

Also, my Uncle Jim, with his constant listening to records and drumming to them, and how did my grandmother not go upstairs and bludgeon him, was a giant influence. He was also a Beatles person, but what I remember most are these solo songs, which I love…

Fuckin’ Yoko, man.

Anyway, so that’s how it got started, men influencing my song choices, and then I started dating. And then, oh lord, I fell in love with someone who loved music, and there it was.

There isn’t a single Led Zepplin song I don’t love, because whether we were in his room, or down in his finished basement with the fireplace and the pillows, or even over at my house, he was playing music. And it was often Led Zepplin. I hear these songs and it’s winter (IT WAS ALWAYS WINTER in Michigan), with the snowflakes and seeing your breath when you’re making out in the car and the fire in the basement and oh my god, I loved the shit out of that stupid young boy.

Then I went to college.

Pretty much every brooding boyfriend I had (i.e., all of them) liked The Smiths, and also?

I can remember college boyfriend #74855 putting Shpritz Forte in his pompadour

41B3ml+9YuL._SY355_while Squeeze was playing Tempted. I can see him, looking into his dorm room mirror, singing along after spending many many (many) minutes trying to convince me to give him a blowie before we left.

Hey, mom.

Then I got back together with the boy from high school, the Led Zepplin one, and his taste in music had changed, so mine changed along with it.

…It’s taken me ages to find all these songs and plunk them in here, and I have to go, and I know you’re sad I can’t trip down memory lane more, but I blame Ned for liking this…

Since I have to go, why don’t you all be my new boyfriend. What are you listening to lately? Share in the comments.

When did I become someone who says, “Share in the comments”? Click like and share for a chance to win big. Whatever with me. Where is my mind? Heh.



Aging ungracefully · June's stupid life · Music · My pets

With her caffeine, her Ritalin, and her pearls. Of wisdom.

That’s really my favorite line from a song.

WHAT is, June? We aren’t actually there in your head. And clearly half the time we don’t read your title.

“With her fog, her amphetamines, and her pearls.” Love that line. Also, do you ever do this? If anyone says to me, “I hate Bob Dylan. Oh, that nasal way he sings,” I just assume that person is dumb. I also never wish to hear that you don’t like the Beatles, because you then plummet into the same category I place “don’t like cats” people.

I can never feel the same about those people again.

What’s your thing, your bottom line, that sort of reduces your opinion of a person irrevocably? Like, I find it utterly baffling that you don’t like tomatoes, but I won’t like you less because of it. Not liking cats, though. See. I gotta take you at least down to the B list, if not the C. You’re my Hilary Swank. You USED to be something.

Last night, I told this guy from work I’d help him with his personal project, which just sounded vaguely dirty and isn’t. Writing is not his jam, see, so for a few nights I’ve stayed after work to help him out, and last night was one of those nights. One of these crazy old nights. We’re gonna find out, pretty mama.

See. I didn’t really hate the Eagles, ever, but once The Poet expressed to me her distaste, their lyrics are becoming noticeably ridiculous to me.

Anyway, it was exactly 5:00, and my phone rang. It was one of the Alexes. “I’m actually leaving work at 5:00!” she exclaimed. “Want to hang?”

We’ve been trying to do something for fucking ever, and she’s always got things going on, as she’s a millennial who grew up here, so she’s got that whole 90210 group of thus-far childless friends she still hangs with. Plus also she’s forever got family things. We live maybe a mile apart and I think the last time we saw each other was last Christmas.

“YES!” I said, excited, and then I remembered. Vilhelm Oyster. I branded my coworker with that name in 2011, and that’s who I promised I’d help. I’d been looking for him, anyway, to see if we were ready to begin our little after-work work, and he hadn’t been around, but then I began searching for him in earnest.

“Vilhlem!” I said, locating him, and I really do call him Vilhelm, which probably irritates everyone around us. “Alex called, and we never ever see each other, and she’s actually available today, right now! Can we work tomorrow?”

“No,” said Vilhelm.

So I moped over to the phone to call Alex and say I couldn’t meet her, but Vilhelm came over and said, YES, I COULD see her after all, and now I gotta find a way to blow him off tonight.

I kid. I will work with him tonight. Probably.

Anyway, I probably went to his B list when I bailed last night.

I took zero photos of Alex being here eating popcorn and drinking wine with me, as I was, oh, in the moment, so you’re gonna have to trust me on this. Also, I have a freelance assignment I want to get done with, and I’m nowhere NEAR done, and yesterday I got offered ANOTHER freelance assignment, and one wonders about my broken back/fenders polishing situation.

While all that wasn’t happening yesterday, I came home at lunch and took action shots of the pets. Act-shun, I wanna live. Wow, June, you’re so not at all predictable, with your lyrics.

IMG_1212.JPGIMG_1213.JPGIMG_1214.JPGPoor blindy Iris. A GOOD mom would have said, “Look out, Irises!” But no.




IMG_E1203.jpgPerhaps you’re wondering who got a snout full o’claws, but are you? Are you wondering? Or do you know the answer already?

I put in my contacts just now; they’d been resting comfortably in the pocket on my robe. But once I put them on, seeing this screen isn’t easy, as then I need my reading glasses. Hello, 462.

I want you to promise me that no matter how old and feeble I get, still sitting here blogging my goddamn days at you, that the minute I in all seriousness say my age as anything “years young” that you will put me out to pasture with Ferdinand the Bull.

I’m 52 years young! Heh. …Hey, where ya takin’ me?

Anyway, I got up to get reading glasses just now. I noticed my coffee cup was empty (By the way, that Ward guy I dated briefly? Had, like, three cups of espresso before work, then a pot of coffee once he was there. I admired his fortitude), so I filled it, then I looked for pants, because what pants am I gonna wear today? Then I put some stuff in recycling, as I am a filthy liberal snowflake who recycles, and finally I sat back down here.

No reading glasses. I’m typing you from as far back as I can go and still reach the keyboard.

way back june.jpg
helloooooo! can you hear me from back here?

What I’m saying to you is the Ritalin has not kicked in yet. Clearly.

I’m still taking a fairly low dose, but it is marvelous, is what it is. Once it begins working, anyway.

Okay, I gotta go. Still on pants quest. It was kind of easier when we were “business casual” and not “hep agency” because the former required nothing from me but eleventeen pairs of black pants. And one gray. For when I was whooping it up.

Whoop, there it is.




...friend/Ned · Am British · Eyebrows Light and Dark · June can't keep a doctor · Music

It was the 3rd of June, another sleepy dusty Delta day. Volume XVIIIX934X

I’m only writing at you because it’s our day.

A few years back, when I sat next to my boss, fmr., he and I got into one of our 408-minute discussions about Things That Didn’t Matter and gee, I wonder why they split us up. That day, the discussion centered on what did Billy Jo McAllister toss off that bridge? Continue reading “It was the 3rd of June, another sleepy dusty Delta day. Volume XVIIIX934X”

...friend/Ned · Music · My pets

That’s why the Juney is a tramp.

Why does Edsel have to go outside and bark bark bark? The neighbors must hate me. Can't he just enjoy outdoors? Sniff a rock and survey his domain in silence, the way Tallulah did? But no. Instead, he tears over to one of the four backyards we face (one is sort of in the corner. And it technically shows us TWO yards) and barks endlessly at anyone who has the nerve to be in his or her own dwelling. Particularly if any of those people happen to be dogs.

Is this a Carolina Dog thing? I need to get on my Edsel Support Group page on Facebook. We're all forever checking in on one another. "Does your Carolina Dog make prank phone calls? Does your Carolina Dog always burn the chicken?"

Do you karoline dog ROCK DE INTERNET?

Speaking of chicken, I've ruined the chicken and the egg so far this week. On Sunday I went to the grocery store and got things like yogurt and nuts and fruit and spinach until Ned finally said, "What's gotten INTO you?" and I explained to him how tired of feeling fat I was, a thing he can identify with because he can't work out with his bulging disk and he abhors his own self currently.

He's been out of town all week, Ned has, and each night I come home and make something sensible and do Tracy Chapman and so far I've gained six pounds.

Anyway, the first thing I did was never cook the chicken breasts I bought, and now they've gone bad. They're using the wrong form of "their" on Facebook and protesting soldiers' funerals cause they hate gay people.

Then last night I made the eggs. "How do you hard-boil eggs?" I asked Ned when he called me from the airport. He's not staying at an airport; rather, he was coming home. His plane was delayed, natch, and it made his mood sparkling. He got in late last night and has to get up for physical therapy at 8:00 today, so.

He gets too tired for PT at 8:00. He likes the theater and always comes late. He's extra into whatever he ate. That's why my boyfriend-for-90-days-same-as-cash is a tramp.

That song makes no sense. I mean, MY version totally does, but the real one. How do any of those traits make you a tramp? I mean, you could just apply any trait and be all, "Tramp."

She blogs for too long; for work she is late. She's dragged to movies she knows she will hate. If she and Ned fail, she wants a rebate.

That's why the Juney is a tramp.

I have no idea what we were talking about. Let's move on. And that's why the lady is a tramp. No matter what your comment is today, I want you to follow it up with telling me why that makes you a tramp. You know how I get. That's why the blogger is a tramp.

She talks about her crap with barons and earls.

Okay, I'm over it. No, I'm not. I'm like Edsel in the yard. I can't get over it.


I finished my 10-year-anniversary-of-blogging video last night. I came IN here to write something for Purple Clover (I know, right? They asked) and after, I took a gander at my video and then sat here for 29 hours changing it again. I did not use the photo above, where Ned looks pensive and deep but really he was checking out the menu at Steak and Shake. But I've always liked that Ned shot. That's why the lady is a tramp.


You probably saw this cute Iris photo on Facebook already, unless you are officially my mother, who is not on Facebook. While I was home, I noted if I typed Facebook into her search bar, it just leaped right into my FB page. Mom'd been bemoaning missing out on family things by not being on, and I said, "If you want, just get on Facebook through my page. I don't care."

So she took her laptop and typed it in and started perusing my wall, till she came across a political post she did not appreciate. Did not cotton to. Did not care for the cut of that Facebooker's jib. "How do I leave a response?" she asked. And that is when I took FB away from mom.


I took this photo of The Poet's dinosaur bag to show Ned, and then I never did. Please see: Ned is in Chicago Being President-y. But now you can all see it, and congratulations. Please see My Readers Aren't Presidents of Anything.


Speaking of readers, did I show you this? A bunch of readers got together and got this artist woman to make a needlepoint of my Luis! Oh, Lu. Look how she got every detail right. That's just where her ears fell. And her little Pitty jaw.

Here's what I do when there's sadness. I feel sad at the TIME, but then I rally and I'm all okay, I'm okay. I can do this. Let me just adopt a Stanley or something. And then I feel bad months later, for a really long time. I have a delayed reaction, and it's worse the second time. Like, my grandmother died, and I still feel the impact of it, whereas at the time I was all, oh okay. I can do this. I can handle this. And then it turns out, no you can't.

That's how I feel about Lu. I feel worse now than I did when she died. I hate fucking grief. I think we're better off not liking anything. And that's why your blogger is a tramp.

How did I go for a thousand words about nothing? If a blogger types a thousand words, then why can't I say anything resembling anything? These words will never show the you I've come to know.

And that's why this blog post is a tramp.

Hair · June can't keep a man · June's stupid life · Music · My pets

Pit act-shun

Today's another Astonishing June-Hair Day.


Iris can't even look at me. See what I did, there? I really need a new back door. The bottom's all rotted off, and have I mentioned how broke? What unexpected car purchase? What two trips to Michigan in one month? What vacation to the beach that I can't really afford? Oy.

I realize you don't feel a bit sorry for me.

Anyway, the weekend. What'd you do? One of you wrote me, I think it was on Pie on the Face, to say you had big hair, and tried to tell your husband you had June Hair, and he was all, "?"

People just don't understand. You know what we all need to stop saying now? "The struggle is real." Let's all stop. Let's also stop saying, "I'll just leave this here" when you post something on Facebook.

Maybe it's not that my hair is big. Maybe it's just cranky.

Anyway, my weekend.

On Saturday I woke up with nary a plan, and I gotta tell you something: I love living alone. I think I even kind of love being single. There is nothing more wonderful than waking up and realizing that, as long as you don't spend much of the $156 you have till Friday, the world is your oyster.

Okay, that sounded depressing. But still. So I had plans to vote, to make America great again, pfft, and get cat food, and once again I promise you I woke up happy even though I'm just a poverty-stricken old maid cat lady. THE POINT IS I got online and realized there was a Pit Bull Awareness Day walk downtown. I got right on the horn with Bitchy Resting Face Alex and we went down there.

IMG_2925 IMG_2973IMG_2970IMG_2948
BRF Alex has a pitty mix, with a big pitty smile, and he was so good on the walk. Edsel stayed home. I felt guilty, but you know how he'd have been.

WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF                        WOOF!                    

                                                        RRRRWOOOF!                            RRRR!         WOOF!


IMG_2936 IMG_2927
Here's BRF Alex doing her impression of the mom in Cat in the Hat, with big black Harper. Anyway, we walked a three-mile loop downtown, for what reason I don't know, and I was thinking we should have been singin' songs and carryin' signs, mostly say hooray for our side. Stop, now, what's that pit.

We started at ended at this brewery, conveniently, so after everyone went in with their pitties and had a beer. It was really all you could ask for on a blustery fall afternoon.

A warm bar with wood floors and exposed brick, beer, and pitty pit pits everywhere you look, just getting along and being wide-headed.


I admired our tableau of drinks: sparkling rosé, because someone can never blend in, beer, and a water dish for dogs.


I was not at all obsessed with this five-month-old pitty puppy with pawses, whose name was Chunk. They think he's a pit/mastiff mix. "I hate Edsel," I announced to BRF Alex, slugging back my manly sparkling rosé.

Afterward, I walked around downtown, and in your Big Book of June Events, you may recall that Ned used to live downtown, drivin' all the old men crazy, so I spent an hour strolling around half-drunkenly after my one wine, walking to bars and restaurants that Ned and I had been to, and then past his apartment, which was two inches from the railroad tracks. We had a lot of train sex when he lived there, because trains would go by every 14 minutes or something. I was just remembering that when…


Goddammit. I considered hurling myself in front of said train, but did not.

On Sunday, one of the Alexes who doesn't work at work anymore came by for a few hours, and I took zero pictures of her, so you're just gonna have to believe me and not think I'm just a sad old woman making stuff up. I cleaned the damn house, so it'd be tidy while I'm out of town this week, which makes no sense, and then a lot of this happened while I watched the Mary Tyler Moore Show for hours on end:


Also occurring was this:


Not to mention:


Act-shun, I wanna live! Act-shun I got so much to give. I wanna give it, I wanna get some too.

It's been awhile since we enjoyed that video together. Let's do so now.

I want you to know this never gets old for me. Never. Her hair, her fine outfit, hearing someone actually sing, "act-shun," the excited audience, and mostly her fine dance moves.

Whenever you read me, I want you to picture disco balls glimmering at you from now on.

I gotta go. It's time for my horn-solo dance part.


Lovin' the nightlife-ly,


At Two With Nature · June's stupid life · Music · Other people's pets

June’s milkshake brings all the calves to the yard

"Oooo! I know!" I said to my friend. "Let's drive out to the country to that ice cream place, where you can pet cows and eat ice cream they made right there on the spot!"


For me, there's a whole afternoon. There's a black-and-white cat who lives there, and I think it's so cute they got a cat with cow colors. And there are Border Collies, or were. Now there's just one who lopes around without a care. Also, peahens.


So we went.


I don't even LIKE milk. Wouldn't it be awful if you produced milk and you didn't even like it? She asks tens of readers who've had kids and produced milk all over the place.


Oh, it's lovely there. I ordered the kids size, meaning, apparently, they give a scoop of butter pecan that is the size of a child between the ages of 18 months and 11 years old. Then you get to sit on chairs and eat your ice cream while grownup cows meander across the street, and the Border Collie lies in the middle of the road.


Alternatively, you can go kiss the BABY COWS! Guess who I was obsessed with. Was it old brownie, here, wif her eyelashessses? Was I obsessed at all? Was I an idiot? Did I knock a few kids aside who had the nerve to want to come near my new baby cow baby of all babies?

Caffie be cute.

Oh my god. I was obsessed with her. Did I mention?

do Caffie look hot?

The whole time I'm writing this, I have the back door open, and that is not a euphemism, and as I write I hear {quiet} {quiet} then GLUMP GLUMP GLUMP {quite} {quiet} GLUMP GLUMP GLUMP. The dogs are doing their full-speed circle around the yard, and when they hit the deck they galumph across it, then tear across the rest of the yard, and soon they'll both burst through the door and drink 79 gallons of water and tear out again.

The point is, I act like I don't already LIVE IN CHAOS and here I am thinking, I could totally get a brown cow baby.

O, you culd. Caffee agree.

Cow selfie. It went well.


Anyway, it was a good day at the creamery. I was nuttery. And that's a surprise.

Everyone's in now. This whole back room is all, "Henh, henh, henh…" Oh, they just went back to the water dish. I'll bet it's tidy and not at all splashy around that dish right now. But yeah, get a baby cow, June. Good plan.

So that happened. And then we went to dinner, and at the restaurant they were playing all grunge songs, like they had some kind of "Gritty Soudns of the 90s" soundtrack on their Pandora or something. But then, after about a hundred SoundPearlPilots songs of Nirvana, they broke into Led Zeppelin.

"What is this, the soundtrack of my life?" I asked, because hey, June, try to be more self-centered. "First we're in Seattle and now we've gone to all the high school basement parties I ever attended."

This got me thinking about if I were going to make a soundtrack of my life, what songs would I put on there, and it's sort of riveting to mull. Here are a few I've thought of so far.


Swear to god, this is the first song I thought of, and it's a jingle, and you know, Laura Ingalls Wilder's soundtrack would not include a jingle. But I can hear this playing from the living room TV while I tried to sleep in my room down the hall.

Anyway, it's kind of a fascinating thing to think about. The soundtrack of one's life. So far I'm at toddlerhood, where I was between 18 months and 11 years old.



Oh, shit, Lottie's crying. Gotta go break that shit up.

lotEE good! she totlee good! she go bak out now?

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.




June's stupid life · Music

It was the 3rd of June another sleepy dusty Delta day

Were you worried I'd forget it was Ode to Billie Joe day? The official holiday of Bye Bye, Pie ever since we all became obsessed with that song?


Did you listen to all the things they eat for lunch? Hello, carbs. Hi hi, another piece of pie.

I have to kind of hurry today, a thing that makes Faithful Reader Paula nervous every time I say it. She reads fast so she won't keep me. I have to go chop cotton while my brother is balin' hay.

When I'm not bizarrely living on Choctaw Ridge, Lottie has to go to the vet this morning before work. We're trying an exorcism this time.


Really, it's her shots. She's getting more shots. In her case, I feel like "shots" mean she'd chew a leather strap and actually get shot with a gun and not care.


Here she is in a rare docile moment. Note they'd pulled that bed all over yonder with their shenanigans, before this picture was taken, and chewed out the stuffing. I was busy hurling myself off the Tallahatchee Bridge.

weeee dossil

Anyway. It's been a big week at work. Two of the four things that were due–no, wait. Three of the five things that were due have been done. Today I just gotta wrap up two of them–crap. Three of the six things that were due are done.

I'll stop there before you don't wanna do much of anything. My readers caught a bored-with-June virus and they died this spring.

I need to get over that song.

I will never get over that song.

Anyway, so it's busy at work, and this one guy I work with said yesterday, "Now that we work together every day, I have this fear that I'll show up one day in your blog. 'Oh, Bob was a real asshole yesterday…'"

Does that even sound like something I'd say? He should know the only asshole is Lottie.


"I like how you've blog-named yourself 'Bob,' quite possibly the boring-est name in the history of time," I said to him while I tried to work at the same time. Really, all conversations with me this week are me slightly to extremely crabbily staring at my computer and typing while we spoke. It hasn't been pretty for anyone.

"Yeah, you're right. Don't call me Bob," said Bob. "And don't take my picture."

IMG_0077 IMG_0078 IMG_0079 IMG_0080

So I didn't. I didn't take Bob's picture. And I didn't call him Bob.

I guess the weekend is here already. That was fast. And not at all stressy. The good news is, the fireflies are here, which is my favorite thing, and last night I heard the first cicada. Oh, how I love to hear the cicadas. Although I don't really know if I'm hearing them or katydids. They sound the same to me.

I've done a terrible job hurrying up.

I'll let you know if they get the devil out of Miss Jones, over here. And also I'll alert you to her weight. When she was at the vet last time, she weighed 8.5 pounds. That was three weeks ago and I feel like she's weighing in at 150. So.

mom honistlee think she can fuk wif lotteee? honistlee? oh mom just wate.

She likes to bring in sticks and also whole branches with leaves, and also pine cones. Lottie is a pleasure of life. With an oversized Easter Island head.

Y'all remember to wipe your feet.

June's stupid life · Music · My pets

Purple robe, purple robe

I just sprayed root cover-up on my legs instead of tanning stuff. Hashtag being a natural woman is hard.


Edsel doing his guillotine impresh. One day this needy animal is gonna snap his head clean off.

I realized it'd been two entire years that I'd taken the cats to the vet, other than the time I rushed Iris there because I was trying to kill her with flea meds, so I made an appointment. Because I haven't given that place enough money lately.

Since the beginning of the year–and did you know it was January 1 that Talu first peed in the house? I had felt guilty because I thought maybe I'd been up too late and slept too long and there she was waiting for me to wake up and she had to pee on the floor. Anyway, since the first of the year, I've gotten to know that staff pretty well. So I was kind of excited to see everyone.

First, I had to put everyone in the kitty carryall. See what I did, there? Little Brady Bunch reference for ya. $_35

My cats are not as nightmarish to put in a crate as others, and I am not at all thinking of Francis. Who required that you put on a HAZ-MAT suit and hawk gloves and get your affairs in order.


It's funny, that picture is right where I'm sitting now. With a different desk and a whole nother set of cats. The hatred still exists, though. I've never noticed his OTHER angry foot before this. And look how just, like, chunks of things have flown off him. Chunks of hate. He was swinging at poor Lu, who Marvin was holding.

Anyway. I got Lily in there first, no problem, and then I was Leonard Nimoy: In Search of…Iris. Was she sleeping in the linens? Welcome to my home! Here're some hairy sheets and a fuzzy towel. Was she in my bed? Welcome to June's House of Discipline.

She was in the back yard, sleeping on the outdoor furniture, as she is wont to do.

She also went in there without incident, but as soon as Lily had someone to complain to, here is what she said for the next 1o minutes while we drove to the vet:


She also added, "MEOW!"

Lugging these two cats to the car was relaxing, but I got them in there, and you won't believe this but Lily said MEOW, and when I was at a red light and could look in the carrier, not only was Lily caterwauling (get it?), but Iris's nose had turned bright pink and she was panting like a dog. It looked like fun in there. 


We were maybe a block away when Lily decided, Hey, now might be a great time to pee all up in the crate, and while I'm up, why not drop a couple of logs off, as well?

Iris panted.

I brought my meow box into the lobby, where Marilyn, who always wears a snake necklace, greeted us. I like her. "Ooohhhh, Iris looks a lot better than last time she was here." At this point, Iris's tongue was magenta and she looked like a husky, with the panting.

"MEOW!" added Lily.

We got to a room and let them out, and the vet tech and vet exclaimed over how pretty they were, and you know how I am. I act like I knitted them personally. Iris wasn't too keen on leaving said crate, so we had to tip it up, and that is when Mrs. Brown and her friends rolled out the barrel.

"I'll clean that up," said the tech, whose job I do not envy other than the getting-to-kiss-kittens portion.

"I'll put the blind one on the floor. I don't want her to fall off the table," said the vet, handling Iris like she was the Magna Carta.

"You don't have to be all gentle with her, she's good," I said, to deaf ears, as the vet sat her on the floor like, "Iris, this is the floor. It's under you. CAN YOU HEAR ME IRIS" oh my god.

Turns out, everyone's fine, and you won't believe this but there's only a pound of difference between sleek Iris and Lily, who Ned calls the Round Mound of Meow. It's some sports joke. I don't know.

$280 later, we were all set. They got their rabies tags, and I really should have remembered to spray shaving cream around their mouths for the visit. Next time.

scru mom and vetz.

Look at Lily, all daring on the dog bed. Lillee been threw the chit. she do not feer dawg.



yay, I…you know, guess. Talu's ashes are here. "You turned our dog into a speaker?" Marvin texted when I sent him this picture. The whole package was nice, though. They had a card and in it were some additional materials, including a thing on grieving I totally identified with. They said it's normal to hear the click of nails on the floor or to think you see the pet out of the corner of your eye, which I totally have.

They also had another card in there with a dog-shaped paper on it. "Plant this and wildflowers will grow in memory of your beloved pet" the card read. I so want to do that. How do you plant wildflowers? I mean, where? And should I buy dirt? Tell me.

And finally. In summation. To conclude. I feel terrible about Prince. We're all wearing purple today at work. I fucking loved Prince; I loved him when I was 15 and Dirty Mind was a record, and I never stopped. I saw him in concert twice, and oh my god, the charisma he had. I think I still have my Prince concert t-shirt somewhere.

I'm so glad my old movie theater showed Purple Rain a few summers back. The place was packed, and we all knew what he was talkin' about so we went on and raised our hands during Purple Rain. They turned on purple lights during the finale of the movie. It was great.


I wish he could have seen it.

P.S. Just when I put on my purple clothes, it started to rain.

Food and Drink · Friends · June's stupid life · Music · My pets

Edsel gets daring

Every morning, I get up, let the dogs out (who, who, who?), make coffee and feed the pets. No matter how far back in the yard they are, the dogs hear their food hit the bowl. Dogs have good hearing, did you know that? By the time I get to the back door, they're in hysterics, worried that wolves are going to burst in the front door and eat all their kibble first or something.

Anyway today I let in Edsel, and was admiring the sunrise, and I yelled, "Tallulah!" I didn't see her run in, but I'd been distracted and never in her life has she not charged in like a banshee for the best three seconds of her day: breakfast.

I was cleaning the cat litterboxes, and I realize I am practically Fern's father in Charlotte's Web, with my farm duties. The point is, I heard crunching. From Lu's bowl. And I assumed all was right with the world.

But Lu wasn't at her bowl. It was Edsel.

He'd eaten ALL his food, then stampeded over to Lu's bowl and just commenced to munching on that. How he had the nerve, I'll never know. You don't fuck with Tallulah and her food.

"Edsel!" I said, astonished. He flinched a little, the guilt flinch, but kept eating. I had to whip out my terrible voice.


Oh, he backed away. Turned into a letter C the way he does. He hung his head, and wrung his hankie, and generally felt sorry for the whole incident. I went to the back door and there was an irate Tallulah, who'd barked nonce, and I have no idea why she was (a) missing and (2) not barking like a maniac once she caught wind of the travesty that was happening to her personal dish.

It was only half full, so I gave her more food, and Edsel super-sized it today. What a jerk.

Eds sorry. Sorts of.

See that damn beer bottle? Some yahoo, who Ima go on a limb and say was Bitchy Resting Face Alex, left empty beer bottles with little sad cards all over my house, for me to find. I think this one read My tears could fill this bottle.

BRF Alex met her husband in, like, seventh grade and they've been together ever since. YET SHE MOCKS MY PAIN.

I like how in that photo you can also see the back of Edsel's ridiculous head.


Speaking of the Alexes, one of them had a birthday yesterday, so we all went to lunch to celebrate. She's 23. She celebrated her birthday with a 50-year-old. That would be like me celebrating my next birthday with a 104-year-old. I think. Maths.

Anyway, I got a turkey sandwich with green apple on it, a fact that annoys my coworker Griff to no end. "Ugh, how could you GET that? I can eat turkey and have an apple after, but…"

Also, I received a statistics textbook in the mail, to proofread, and I know you enjoy me when I have one of those looming over me. So far I've gotten the huge box off the porch, moved the huge box to my dining room, touched the box with trepidation yesterday and toyed with opening it, then came in here and bought iTunes all night. So.

June's latest iTunes…



I'm just telling you. Prepare yourself for June's-hysterical-about-her-statistics-textbook posts in about a week. Then I'll cash that check and all will be right with the world. I'll stop off and nibble me a little Tallulah food. I hear her dish is open to just everyone.



...friend/Ned · Aging ungracefully · At Two With Nature · June's stupid life · Music

Toot toot, heyyy, beep beep.

Yesterday at work, one of the coworkers sent an email to a bunch of us. "Anyone up for going to happy hour after work, for a bit?"

I immediately screamed back an email: "GOD ,YES."

An hour later, that same guy re-emailed. "So far, all I've gotten was a 'GOD, YES' from June. Anyone else?"

Corporate ladder. Climbing it.

Fortunately, other people wanted to go, too, so we all headed downtown to that brewery we go to. I parked where I always do, which is on the street near the antique store, where in the back of the store is the little courtyard that is my future wedding venue.

"OUT OF BUSINESS SALE" read a sign on the antique store.

Son of a–ARE YOU SERIOUS? Now I have not only a lack of groom, but a lack of VENUE? I feel like my wedding plans are falling apart.

I groused on into the bar, wondering what I was gonna do about that deposit on the polka band. We all kind of arrived at the same time, as did the rest of the world, because Friday at 5:30. I went to the bar with a coworker and waited an interminable amount of time because they only had one poor guy working, a guy with a ton of thick, wavy hair. I tried to picture our children, and came up with with maybe a Fabio and Bernie from Room 222 hybrid. A Berbio. As I turned from the bar to head back to my table,

there was Ned.

It deserved its own line. "Hi, Ned," I said, cool as a cucumber. Or as my mother said recently, calm as a cucumber. "This is my friend from work, Eugenia." Now I'm wondering if all the Alexes from work are gonna be mad I gave this particular coworker a whole new name, or they're gonna be grateful I didn't call them anything stupid like Eugenia.

Ned introduced us to his friend, who's in from out of town, and that was that. I returned to the coworker table no worse for wear.

"How do I look?" I asked everyone nervously. "You look beautiful," one of the nicer Alexes said, and clearly she had on her 1990 wine goggles, which is the last time I remotely looked beautiful.

Eventually, my boss came in and went to the bar. When he returned, he was all, "WHAT A SMALL WORLD! DID YOU SEE WHO'S HERE!? NED BOUGHT ME  DRINK!!"

I mean, between the Ned sighting and my wedding venue and my boss turning all Benedict Arnold, which I just typed as Benedict Arthur, I was so ready for what was next. You won't BELIEVE what happens next. Click here.

There was a dance party at Proximity, the hotel I like to go to when I do my freelance whore work. Kaye and Marty Martin and I were all set to go. "Kaye is tired," texted Marty, at like 7:30. "She's going home."

"TELL KAYE TO SUCK MY DICK!" I wrote back.

"If you show it, she'll blow it," wrote Marty, and incidentally I love Kaye.

So that left just MMartin, Esq, who is not remotely an Esq., to get up with me at the dance party. We sat in the lobby of the hotel, where I sit to do my whoring, so I felt super comfortable. Actually, it occurred to me that getting a drink and taking it to the lovely lobby is a great date idea. Space to talk and still enjoy that nice hotel. Now I have a first date locale, but no wedding venue.

Eventually, the music started and we headed to the main room. This dance party was totally for people our age. It was like in the early '90s, when I had this old lady friend who asked me to take her out to a senior dance one night. I was the only person under 70 there, and you can imagine what a Scarlett-at-the-barbecue I was that night. It was so fun to watch my little friend Millie cut a rug. She could SUPER DUPER dance, the way old people can, like they know actual dances and stuff.

Anyway, at that dance, they played Glenn Miller and…other old people bands that I don't know. Plus Stayin' Alive. Last night at the pop-up dance, they played all songs from my youth, like Heart of Glass, Dancing Queen, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, and then also Stayin' Alive.

MMartin and I moved to a table right on the dance floor. We'd try to guess what song or artist was next (we were right about Janet Jackson). There was a foursome who were inexplicably visiting from Belgium, and they were good-looking and well-dressed. Then there was a guy who looked exactly like Benny from ABBA.


Seriously. Like, Doppelganger. Oddly, I am wearing a tshirt exactly like that today. I got Benny on the brain.

While Marty and I were dancing to Dancing Queen, this person got on the floor who looked exactly–EXACTLY–like Pat. From SNL. That Pat. I've seen this person out before, when I've been with Ned, and I was sorely tempted to text Ned but did not. Pat, as usual, had on a plaid shirt. It's like this person is TRYING to do a Pat impression.

"This whole evening is like an '80s prom and White Power," observed Marty. Mostly we spent the whole evening loving our own selves for our pithy observations. We listened to Bad Girls.

You ask yourself
Who they are
Like everybody else
They come from near and far

"Profound," I said to Marty. Really, the whole evening was fascinating for me. I loved watching all the old people such as myself cutting loose at a hotel bar. At the end of the night, the Pat character was grinding with Benny from ABBA. And the first person to wonder why I didn't take photos of real humans so we can all look at them gets a toot toot right in their beep beep.
I did get this oddly red photo of Marty and me. It was Simply Red. Which we also heard last night.
Now it's Saturday and it's rainy so I'm not sure what I'll do all day. Rainy days really interfere with all the outdoor athletics I like to engage in. It's not a day if I'm not rappelling somewhere. Or repelling.
With the wings of heaven on my shoes,
June's stupid life · Music

What’s the matter with the clothes I’m wearin’

I still have no WiFi at home, and I had so many more pictures to show you. I know you are the Indian with a tear right now. This is as bad as litter.

Since I can't talk to you, let's do this: What was the number one song on your 15th birthday? For me, it was Still Rock-n-Roll To Me by Billy Joel, which, eh.

The Guy Who Sits Next To Me had No Scrubs by TLC. Wow.

I want to say Ned's was Lady by Kenny Rogers. I'm not even sure of it, but now I want to say it cause it's so awful and it kills me.

You? Just Google "Number One Song on [add your 15th birthday here]."


Oh, also? I'm your knight in shining armor and I love you. You have made me what I am and? I am yours.

...friend/Ned · Film · June's stupid life · Music

Girls, Tramps, Butterfaces

Last night, Ned and I went to see Girls, Girls, Girls at the old theater we like. Mostly it was about how a slutty woman with dumb hair and a butterface both liked Elvis.


You know what a butterface is, right? Where someone has a lovely figure, but her face!

Dear Feminist Mom: Yeah, I know.

In nearly every scene with the slutty woman in the movie, she had this ridiculous hairdo that was swept all to one side. Every time she appeared onscreen, Ned was lucky enough to enjoy my hilarity, where I'd push all my hair to the side, too. Of course, several people on that side of the theater had to keep leaving their seats every time to make room, so, inconvenient.

Also, the slutty one was a nightclub performer, and every time Elvis showed up, he'd be all, "Ima get onstage and perform, too. Surely the band knows all the songs I wanna sing, and we all intuitively know how to choreograph our moves."


The best part about the nightclub act is there's this stripey-shirted bass player who wanted Elvis so bad he couldn't contain himself. Ned pointed it out. "Look how bad the bass player wants to fuck Elvis."

Oooo! YouTube! You can also see the slutty woman's hairdo!


There's another, slower number where you really see the bass player's lust, but I have to get to work. I like how I call it a "number" like I'm a vaudeville agent.

But really, the most annoying person in the whole movie was the butterface. Geez, I hope she's not still alive. Hang on. Oh, god, she is still alive. Dear butterface actress: I am sorry. You were no looker, though.

Screen Shot 2015-07-31 at 7.48.35 AM

Naturally, Elvis picked the butterface, because it was an Elvis movie, and every pretty tramp with a swept-to-one-side hairdo gets the shaft. Note the symbolic butterface-gets-the-oar message, here.

I won't even get into the racist Chinese stuff. Elvis is inexplicably also tight with the Chinese community in town, who pretty much go around eating chop suey and saying things with no articles. "Ohhhh, you must come to house!" It's like everyone is doing a Confucius impression.

Okay, I'll show it to you, but you're gonna wanna kill yourself like you're a possum in our yard.


I warned you. If you just want to kill yourself a little, skip to 1:05.

Anyway, that was that. Then somehow when we got home last night, we had a crucial discussion about what is Led Zeppelin's best song. I say The Rain Song. Some survey we looked up said Kashmir.


What say you?

Looking at you disapprovingly with my cigarette and pointy nails,


Aging ungracefully · Beauty products · Eyebrows Light and Dark · June's stupid life · Music · My pets

Watch June apply her makeup. You won’t BELIEVE what happens next. Yeah, you will. She puts on clothes and goes to work.

Today, Ima talk to you while I do my makeup. Here I am, looking like one of those women who doesn't shave her parts, whose one iota of makeup is some tinted Burt's Bees balm.

Photo on 7-9-15 at 7.55 AM #2

Mmmm. Vision. You know, I am in no way a natural beauty. Never have been. Thank god I'm a drag queen with the makeup.

Photo on 7-9-15 at 7.58 AM

Combed my eyebrows, darkened them a little, and put on some undereye concealer. I never had a problem with dark circles till I started to use Latisse. It's one of the side effects. However, I've been out of Latisse for maybe a month now, and things keep coming up that I have to spend money on like glamorous water heaters. But, Dear Mom: My birthday is a week away. Nothing says Happy 50th! like a bottle of Latisse.

I assure you mom has already purchased and likely mailed my gifts, and there ain't no Latisse in there. Darn, that's the end.

Photo on 7-9-15 at 8.07 AM #4

A little foundation, some eye shadow. You'll note our regularly scheduled cat has been replaced by a dog. You won't BELIEVE what happens next! Click here!

And by the way, I totally forgot poor Edsel's birthday, on the 7th. Was too busy at King Kong. I thought of it last night, and went running into the room Edsel was in, and he immediately began beating his tail against the wall and had no idea why I was kissing him and giving him treats, but he didn't care.

I asked him if he wanted to come sleep with me, just us two, and he didn't have to be asked twice. IMG_4685
well, eds haff the time of ed's life. and he never felt dis way beefore.

Somehow eventually Tallulah got up there, too, and I have no idea how I ever slept with two dogs and two cats in a double bed like it was normal.

Anyway, now Edsel is 5. Man, has he calmed down.

Oh, also? I always forget how much he and Lily seem to like each other. They were totally making out last night, but by the time I got my photojournalism camera out, all I got was this and they broke it up.

Photo on 7-9-15 at 8.21 AM #2

Eye pencil mascara and expired lipstick. My lipstick has an expiration date on it, I am not kidding. I should have stopped using it back in March. Am living on edge.

So now I have to get dressed, but before I go, help me with a deep thought I was having the other day. What is the worst song of the '80s? I mean, there's the obvious We Built This City, and I do heartily detest that song, but what about Huey Lewis? The heart of rock and roll is still–oh, go fuck yourself.

Do share your thoughts.

...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Music

Bag of the enemy

Last night after work, Ned and I met for dinner at the restaurant I really like that he isn't that crazy about. I have no idea how you could not be crazy about this place, but its big draw, really, is that it has outdoor seating. It's that place we went to one night when we were first dating that sat us in pitch blackness.

When I just went to find that post, I thought, "I wonder what the hell I would have called that post. I shoulda called it In the Dark." So I Googled "byebyepie" + "restaurant that sat us in darkness" and guess what I found. A post called In the Dark. Clearly my brain never changes. Not since birth.

"The reason I never really am crazy about that place is there's not one goddamn thing to eat there that's healthy," said Ned just now, like that's a feature that matters. One reader in particular gets all excited when Ned's getting out of the shower and getting ready while I type. Today he has on a white shirt and sort of charcoal-looking pants. I don't mean he has pants on made of little squares that make your hands dirty when you pick 'em up. After work, Ima set Ned in the sun and make s'mores right off his pants.

(I just heard him zip that gym bag. The bag of enemy. The bitch that takes him from me for hours each day, that gym.)

Here's another thing. Ned always says about things, "I don't DISLIKE it, I'm just not crazy about it." He says that about everything. He just said that about this restaurant just now. Why can't he just come out and admit he dislikes something? The other day he said, "I don't DISLIKE that guy, it's just he thinks he's better than us." I mean, how could you not dislike someone who thinks he's better than you? Unless of course it's true. Like, if Sarah Jessica Parker thought she was better than me, I'm down with that.

That's why I hate that People of Walmart site. It's like we're laughing because we think we're better than poor people. That site has never made me laugh, not once. Makes me sad, really. How awful are we? Oh, here we are, with our cute clothes and our privilege, laughing at people who aren't as cool as us.

Oh my god, SERIOUSLY, with the digressing.

SO WE WENT TO THAT RESTAURANT. Geez. And the reason I fought for it was because of the outdoor seating. I got there first.

"Oh, all the outdoor seats are taken," said the little chippie of a waitress who was not that little. I mean, if you're 23, BE THIN NOW. This is the only time it's easy. Don't be chubby. You'll never have a time you can look back and say, "God, I looked great."

When Ned got there, I was crankily sitting inside. "Why are you inside?" he asked, as if I'd just FORGOTTEN I wanted to be outside. I told him the sitch–that it was a 20-minute wait to eat outside. "You want to wait?" he asked. Of course I didn't want to wait.

"You wanna go to–"

"NO. I don't want to go anywhere else," I cranked. "I don't wanna drive around town and find four other restaurants that also can't seat us outside."

I swear to you this town has gotten busier. Have more people moved here? Is the economy better? I liked it when no one could afford restaurants. You know when you could probably always get a seat? The Depression, that's when. The Depression was probably great.

So we sat inside. A Nirvana song came on. "You know, this is really a David Bowie song," said Ned, who knows I hate David Bowie. Why does David Bowie have to be so dramatic, with his face glitter and his spiders from Mars? Who gives a shit where your spider came from? Any time you end something "from Mars," you aren't being very imaginative. Same with "from hell." "It's a job from hell." Oh, ho ho ho ho hoooo! Wow! How'd you think of THAT?

And his teeth. Hello, Big Book of British Smiles.

"Yes, I know," said, knowing full well Ned was gonna launch in his how-can-anyone-hate-David-Bowie diatribe.

"How can anyone hate David Bowie?" Ned asked, as the food came.

Every song that came on after that, Ned would say, "This is a David Bowie song." They were playing Old People Music for patrons like us: The B-52s, that song Funky Cold Medina, some REM. Every song. "This is actually by David Bowie."

Ned's love for himself grew with each bite. In the meantime, I had to methodically wipe each of my fries with my napkin, because they'd put way too much salt on them. By the end of the meal, I had 27 napkins at my chair, like I was a toddler. Ned ate every bite of his unhealthy sandwich and fries. "I don't DISLIKE fries…" he began.

On the way home, the radio played a David Bowie song.

Am British · I hate everything · June's stupid life · Music

June’s Cheer Blog

Hi, everyone!!! How's everyone's day going!!?? Sure have missed you all since yesterday!! : )

God, wouldn't it be awful if I were cheerful like that?

289781_10150290035273850_1265847_oI've always been what you might call a cranky person, and I have no problem with that.

I do know some cheerful people who I like. The guy who works in our mailroom is always happy, but not in a Hey, what'd'yaknow, whatd'yasay point-his-finger-at-you kind of way. He's just kind of always quietly happy. We were talking at work the other day about how if you don't like that guy, there's gotta be something wrong with you.

But I am not happy that way. I wonder if people don't like me because I'm Oscar the Crab, or if it's somehow endearing? I must be endearing, right?

Okay, maybe not.

In other news, I feel bad for Joni Mitchell. She's in a coma. The summer I lived in England, I'd get up in the morning really early and run, and who WAS I? I know I was inevitably hung over each day. But I lived in the same park that held the London Zoo, not that they put me up in the zoo for the summer, which I'd have been totally down with. But I'd run from my dorm to the zoo, look at all the animals who were already out. The wolves would run from one end of their cage to the other, looking at me the whole time.

Those wolves were not subtle. They'd have literally eaten my shorts.

MY POINT IS, I had no device, no Walkman or iPod or any headphones whatsoever, and for some reason this song was often in my head while I ran:


I lived there in July and August of 1990. I have no idea why I was singing that. You know what I did? I made a lot of money, and I quit this crazy scene.

Anyway, the point is, I like Joni Mitchell. I'm like Emma Thompson's character in Love, Actually. Except for the likable, stoic part.

Stoic. There's another thing I'm not. Let's have a day where we say all the things we're not.



At a loss for words. I never understand it when someone says, "I didn't know what to say." HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW WHAT TO SAY? Say the first thing that pops into your head, that's what you say.


On time. It's already 8:31. GodDAMMIT.



...friend/Ned · June's stupid life · Music

Tipsy Gypsy Nipsey

Ned and I were out late last night; we went to see Lucinda Williams.


Please remind me to tell you about the Excitable Roy who sat in front of us. He looked like my friend Roy–at first I thought it WAS my friend Roy, with his ginger hair and long beard–and you could be certain he'd seen the opening band before. Let me assure you.

Every song they started, he'd pump his fist and do this, "YEAHHHHHH!" growl/screech thing, then say to his wife, "WELCOME TO ALABAMA!" or "THE SONG ABOUT HIS GRANDMA!" Then he'd pump his fist, and repeat the lyrics back to his wife, who never did anything but nod exhaustedly.

"That wife? Beleaguered." I announced to Ned. "I know!" said Ned, who'd clearly been thinking the same thing. The good thing about Ned is when we're out, we're both spending the whole time staring at people, and thinking judgy things. If you can't be your worst self with your person, who CAN you be your worst self with?

By the way, I guess you don't need to remind me to tell you about Excitable Roy, because I think I just did.

Ned was not a fan, at least he wasn't as big a fan as Excitable Roy, but I didn't mind that band so much, because I'm from Saginaw. I liked the song they had about the grandmother, and they were all sort of hot, in a bearded country way. The lead singer's shirt came open at some point, and Ned said, "Can you read the tattoo on his stomach?"

"Just some letters, but I was assuming it reads 'Gypsy.'"

"Maybe it says Tipsy," Ned suggested.

"Or Nipsey," I said. "He could be a huge Nipsey Russell fan," I said.

I mean, who isn't?

I like men who wear big, chunky jewelry. Not that Nipsey Russell does, but rather old Tipsy Gypsy Nipsey, up there. He had a big coral ring, and necklaces, and I like that look. (Now Ned is accusing me of liking other men because he would in a million years not wear chunky jewelry, and a good idea is letting your person see what you're blogging.)

Oh my GOD I just came on here to say I can't blog and look what's happened.

IMG_3151I was just going to show you this rainy picture I took of the tree outside my window, finally getting leaves ("finally." It's March) and from yesterday to today it went from hint of green to hi, here are my leaves. So. Also, my robe totally tried to photobomb.

I had my ultrasound yesterday but so far no call re it. I think they're going to say, Hey, you have an ovarian cyst. Nothing we can do about it. That'll be $900, please.

Okay, really going.

IMG_3147Oh, look, here I still am. I forgot I took this picture of my pretty rainy yard yesterday morning as I left for work. It doesn't nearly do justice to all the purple and yellow back there, but it sure celebrates that tag hanging off the chair.

Your fave gypsy blogger,


June's stupid life · Music

And you can tell everybody this is your song (Or, Blog reader walks into a bar)

Yesterday, I learned there's a new app you can put on your phone which will let you play whatever song you like when you walk into a bar or restaurant that has a juke box. ("I even busted the juke-a-box!" Name that movie.)

What would your song be?

I said Black Dog or Bizarre Love Triangle, a fact that surprises no one who knows me.



The Guy Who Sits Next to Me said The Pixies' Where is My Mind, and then I was jealous of his most excellent choice.

I love that song. But now if I say that, I am just Single White Female-ing The Guy Who Sits Next to Me.

There's something you say every day.

Griff, who sits next to The Guy Who Sits Next to Me, said Merle Haggard. God help us all.


Ned said Camptown Races, and he doesn't even get a You Tube video for that.

What would your song be?

Hulk's sex life · I am a pleasure of life · June's stupid life · Music

Undressed By Kings

IMG_2655To us, it's funny and cute, and to them it's this all-consuming battle for hierarchy, where each is determined to be the victor, TO THE DEATH.

IMG_2705Even NedKitty's BAG wants eternal dominance. NedKitty fights on.

Perhaps I have too much time on my hands. Too much time on my {alarm noises}. Sadly, that Styx album was playing when I lost my virginity. The song that was playing was, ironically, The Best of Times. Hello, high school boyfriend Cardinal, who sometimes reads this blog and with my luck he'll pop in today, not to be redundant. I am SORRY, but it was NOT the best of times, man. Nothing personal.

Speaking of stupid songs we'd rather not think of, just this morning, Ned said, "Every time I turn around, there's more laundry to do."

"Oh, well, you know what helps with that," I said, as if I had some seriously helpful information to give.

"What?" Ned seemed eager to hear Household Tips From June.


I feel like sometimes Ned wishes I'd return to the hotel.

I don't even technically know what a der kommissar is. Is it like someone who's in charge? In another country? Does my unknowledgeability continue to shock you, even now, when I come shining through?

I swear I think of you.

Okay, I'll stop.

Tonight, because god forbid he rest, Ned is getting his hair cut by the Russian model and then he's headed to Raleigh to watch basketball like it's fun. At least he can be all, HELLO, RALEIGH! BEHOLD MY NEW 'DO!

I am going to get a manicure after work, and then come home and read my book. I can just HEAR my mother wondering why I don't go to dinner with a friend or something, and she also wondered why I didn't invite a friend to my hotel.

See, both of those ideas sound dreadful to me. I mean, first of all, I was Officially Freaking Out® at the hotel and no one needed to see all that. And I will work a full day with my new work duties, I have to be somewhere during lunch, then of course my pressing manicure–and if you get gel manicures, you know it takes a lot of concentration to stick your hand in that light box without screwing everything up.

So the last thing I want to do is see anyone after all that noise. I have plans with my pal Jo this week, and I owe the Tall Boy a plan, and I have a party this weekend and TWO next weekend and that is social enough for me.

My mother has people running in and out of her house all day long, and plans with people all the time. Like, every day. That would just about wear my soul down. I'm in that open floor plan all day long as it is. I don't know, man. Do I seem antisocial to you?

I just thought of how Hulk has the song All By Myself on his iPod and I giggled a little. Remember in Bridget Jones' Diary, when she drank alone in her apartment (flat) and sang All By Myself? Totally had Hulk doing that with his beer. Poor Hulk. Maybe if we all put it into the universe today: HULK WILL MEET THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE NOW, maybe it will happen. Hulk's not all bad. I mean, I wouldn't fuck him. But someone really ought to. Let's all think it at 2 p.m. Eastern Time. Or if you missed that time, think it now.

I have to go dry my hair. I have a bit of a dilemma. The hair dryer is on the back of the toilet. The Ned toilet. I KNOW it's SWARMING in germs. I have my rubber gloves and my bleach in there, so I could spray down my hair dryer, I guess, right? I mean, I'm afraid to touch it. I had my roots done this weekend, therefore my hair blown straight, so I didn't need to dry my hair till today.

It's a phobia, folks.