You just want it cause it’s gaudy.


No one is in the house right now except for Steely Dan, and I admit to the tiniest thrill of fear. There is no other animal to come to my aid, should he decide this is the moment to reveal he’s a tiny perturbed man in a cat suit. Continue reading “You just want it cause it’s gaudy.”

Retro June

Yesterday at work I went back to copy editing. I asked if I could do so some months ago, and they said okay, but you have to wait till we get other editors in here, so I waited, and then without further ado or fanfare, it was all, "Can you copy edit this?" and by the end of the day I'd copy edited three and a half articles and three decks. I know that might mean nothing to you, but trust me, that's a lot.

Oh my GOD, it was wonderful. I didn't have one meeting to go to all day! Now, today, I have to write again, so it's a gradual process, but oh it was nice to see my old friend the AP Stylebook, and worry about spaces before ellipses and how do you punctuate an episode of a TV series, not the show itself.

I liked doing the writing, I really did, but the stuff around it was so stressful. Meetings and people wanting to consult with you all the time and having to be creative on demand in a loud room. It just wasn't me. It'd be like asking a chihuahua to do disaster rescue.

I need a quiet little job, where I can worry about teensy things like apostrophes. My insides are loud and chaotic enough as it is, without my outsides being the same.

And the good news is, I still get to do a wee bit of writing, which I did really like, but without the "Get to this meeting, get to this one, think of this idea NOW you have two hours, go" thing. So, best of both worlds!

I guess I'm kind of returning to my old life, aren't I?

I used to be a copy editor, then I switched, and now I copy edit again.

I used to date Ned, then I didn't, and now I do again.

I used to live here, then I didn't, and now I live here again.

I used to have a dog and three cats, then I switched it up to two and two like I was Chuck Wollery, and now I have a dog and three cats again.

God, I'm so retro.

I'm so 2009. Without the husband part. When do I get to the husband part?

And you know, I'm rethinking the husband part. Especially yesterday after you all told me the things that made you irrationally mad and so much of it was, "When my husband … ." I love comment days like that, and I know I irk the people who work around me when I read your comments and laugh out loud. I ell oh ell. I refuse to write those three letters even in jest.

But really, I am, you know, an irritable person. Maybe I'm better off living alone. I adore living alone. I can't begin to tell you how happy it makes me to come here and have my time to myself. Last night I got home with the intention of leaving again and going to the old theater I like and watching Rocky. I even had a brilliant idea: I'd go into the theater with my popcorn, pretend I was looking for a friend, and yell



I was cracking my own self up, for a change.

But then I decided to stay home and do my goddamn stupid yoga DVD that really namas my stay. "Expand your heart, and root down with your shin bones."


The shit they say during a yoga class is ridik. "Really plug into the back of your heart."

Okay, plug into the back of my dick. Can't they just say what they mean? Like, literally, where do you want my leg to be right now. Don't tell me to "root down" anything unless we're suddenly digging for truffles.

I'm the only person you know who gets even angrier when she does yoga.

The point is, I stayed in, and after "really bringing [my] glow forward" texted with my friend M, who comments here sometimes. I met M when we were both single and ready to root our chakras, and plug into our heart center, back last year. He lives in Florida, but he saw my profile, and when you have All This…

"I live in Florida, so we'll never meet, but your profile is great," he wrote me. What kills me is we both shut down our dating sites with a flourish sometime later, so neither of us knows our anniversary, but we know it's sometime in October.

Anyway, we've become friends. In much the same way you and I are, in that we've never actually met. I know all his stupid shit and he knows all mine, and there it is. Anyway, it was a fine evening, hating yoga and hating my friend M because he hates Say Anything, and how can I even be friends with someone with such bad taste in things?

So what do I want to get married for? I might not. I'll let you know if I do. I told Ned I might be just fine if we were just engaged and never went through with it, like Oprah and Steadman. I'm trying to still diddle Gayle, is the point.

Photo on 11-16-16 at 8.03 AM

The whole time I've been writing you, Sir Dickus R Puddingcup, over here, has been prancing past me, walking across the keypad and generally getting in my way, as cats are wont to do. Why do I always get the most jerky pets? This kitten is what Lottie was to puppies. Aka, world's most rambunctious. Look at his Great Horned Owl look, up there, and he'll get a REAL horned owl look when I throw him outside for pickup. Old Screechy outside will take this kitten to his nest.

Yesterday I was in the bathroom, and he ran in and leaped onto the shower curtain, and just hung there like a moth, just to see if he could. I watched him sway in the breeze a little, just hanging on the curtain.

wee exhaust, mom. kittee exhaust.

I gotta go, but I did want to show you the photo Ned just text me. Here is the breathtaking view from his hotel room:


Ooooooo! God. Lucky. I wish I were president of something and got to travel.

Okay, goodbye. Be sure to root down through your tailbone today. Namaste here and laugh at you when you do.

Dewey Defeats Truman

I gots to go. I have to get in the car, drive to freaking Raleigh, get on a plane and fly to Michigan. I'm running for president and thought I'd better get on the campaign trail.

That would so be how I'd run for president. Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it. I'll campaign.

Anyway, my mother is having an election night party that I will be attending seeing as I am there and all. And then tomorrow is her 90th birthday.

One of the millennials from work is pet-sitting, and she came over yesterday to met everyone and Edsel plans to devote his life to making her happy.


Here's Ned's front porch Sunday morning. The people next door have the best tree in the whole neighborhood. You can't really see it, but his Halloween skeleton cat is on the table, there.

Wait, June. Sunday morning?

I went over there for some flour. I went over there to pick him up for church. I went over there cause I'd made a big batch of muffins and wondered if he wanted any. I went over there to snake his sink. I went over there for our Sunday morning singalong and jazz hands hour.

All right, I gotta go. But don't forget to vote, if you haven't. Please note I voted early and did not make you look at my I Voted sticker, nor did I take a selfie with my ballot–a ballottee–a selfott–nor did I announce on social media that I voted and what a wonderful person I was for supporting [insert veiled reference to how bad the other candidate is here].

It's a sad day when I'm the least-obnoxious person around.

Talk to you later, when I'd really love to discuss Frisco and Felicia from General Hospital, a thing we ended up talking about on Facebook the other night and now I am obsessed. I'd also like to discuss the Jeff/Heather/Annie triangle, Monica and Alan, and everything about Robert Scorpio plus also not to mention incidentally The Floating Rib.

Lady of my heart. Tell me who you are.

See? Obsessed. I got Lasa Fever.



P.S. Do NOT forget to remind me to tell you (wow, June) about the bee attack at Boston Market. Why so sizeable, June?

P.P.S. The Ice Princess

P.P.P.S. Mikkos Cassadine

P.P.P.P.S. Ima miss my damn plane

Oh, good. I get to read about someone’s trip.

I hate brunch.

There's the part where you're expected to get up, WITH NO FOOD OR COFFEE IN YOU, and head to some crowded restaurant, then wait in a lobby for a hundred minutes. Then always–ALWAYS!!–some asshole party of 10 is just before you, because hey, what's more fun than a huge GROUP going to brunch where it's already crowded.

Then you have to wait. For more coffee, for your food, for your check, and in the meantime, some asshole is singing Fire and Rain on his acoustic guitar, which is supposed to relax you and make you forget you've waited 45 minutes JUST FOR ONE CUP OF COFFEE SO FAR, when really that song is about a terrible plane crash, so relaxingness, not accomplished.

But I just figured out yesterday, as I waited 250 minutes for an egg, that another reason I hate going to brunch is how awful people look. It's so obvious they've rolled out of bed and just shuffled on in. Dear People At Brunch: Put on some goddamn pants. "Oh, these yoga pants and m'flipflops will suffice."


I'm the only person you know who could come back from the beach even crankier than before. I totally need one of those flipflop stickers for my back window, and maybe a "Beach Girl" license plate. If you ever see me with either one of those, you'll know it's time to put me in the home. My ex-mother-in-law used to say that about if we ever saw her out in a sweatsuit.

You know what my ex-MIL would never do? Wear yoga pants to brunch.

Despite that, I did have fun. It was like the perfect vacation. The weather was divine, and I just said "divine." The little place I stayed was perfect, and mercifully empty till this asshole couple arrived on Saturday and decided blaring their music and opening their back doors right next to me was a marvelous idea. They also made out in their bathing suits on the back porch. Our shared back porch. I went outside and pretended they weren't there and read a book. Like the jerk of an old lady that I am.

One of the songs they were blaring was, I'm sad to tell you, I've Had The Time of My Life. You know, from Dirty Dancing? She had some kind of extended dance remix of it, and who knew there was such a thing. When this jerk of a young chippie wasn't carrying a glass–A GLASS–of mimosa to the beach and making out with her boyfriend, whom she continually called, "Baby," she was jamming out to that song. She was singing along. I was reading my book just to irk her back there, and I was all, "Bitch, I was out here in the world hating this song before you were a zygote."

Anyway, they were only there the last full day, as I said, and they left midafternoon and I didn't hear from them again till Sunday morning, which is what drove me to get eggs in public.

Other than that, it really was the perfect vacation.

Here's my hair on day one.

Later on day one.

Day two, then below, days four and five. On day three, I went to town and had civilized hair. If anyone says, "Beach hair don't care," Ima personally drive to your house and make you wait tables at brunch.

IMG_3116 IMG_3111

I sat in the giant chair at my rental house and looked at the water and obsessed over the bunnies who could not have hated me more,


I had a dark-chocolate s'more (not a euphemism), and watched sunsets. I was on a point, so I could see water all around me.


I saw three shooting stars on various nights, and oh! I saw a dead jellyfish!

That poor jellyfish. The water was his jam.

I also went to Wilmington, which is right next to the beach I stayed at. Whenever you say you're going to the beach, people here are all, "Oh, what beach?" and then you tell them and I have no idea what they're thinking about you as a result. Do they think that's a tacky beach? That you sound rich cause you picked that beach? I have no idea. So far since I've lived here I've gone to the Outer Banks, and Carolina Beach, and Wrightsville Beach and Virginia Beach and I forget the others and they all look the same to me anyway, water and sand, which also by the way pisses people off. I guess it's like asking what church you go to. It tells a lot about a person.

Anyway, I went to Wilmington for the day, and saw people Halloween-ing, and saw many dogs, and went to a coffee shop and to the book store and bought jewelry I didn't need as opposed to all the people in the world who go without jewelry every single day, and that's the real tragedy we should be addressing in these times.


Maybe this was a funeral procession for that jellyfish. You can't know, really.


In a coffee shop window. There are two types of people in the world: People who love to sit in the window of the coffee shop, and people who never would. Guess which type I am.


Bookstore sitting. I found an '80s Judith Krantz novel I read back when I had a perm, and I didn't buy it but now I wish I had, just to relive the terrible. It was called I'll Take Manhattan. The heroine was rich and beautiful and spirited. It really pisses me off when rich beautiful people think it's daring to be spirited. "Oh, I'm Prince Harry. Look at me rebel! With my bodyguards and my lifelong career as a royal!"

Anyway. You know what my dream is? To own a bookstore and have a bookstore cat. There's just the part where I'd have to know business things like maths and also I hate people. Oooo, I could have a brunch-and-books store. 


IMG_3142 IMG_3057
Anyway, it was a good trip, and now I'm home sharing my toast with Edsel, and with each crust, he leaps in the air after it and a squeak of Eds gas comes along with it, which is probably god's way of telling me that Edsel should not be leaping after my toast crust, and what's sad is god speaks to me in dog gas.

This is the word of the Lord. <squeeeeeak>

Thanks be to God.

Oh, and happy Halloween! Boo! My coworkers are all going dressed as Griff this year, which is hilarious, but I was out of town and unable to fashion an ensemble, so I guess I'll just watch from afar this year.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, when I will have far fewer selfies, a thing that I'm sure makes you sad. Talk to you in November. Today's assignment is that we all must rush out and rent Sweet November. The old version with that namby-pamby pale actress. Then we can all get annoyed at how dying just means you nap a lot.

Edsel gas in red font-ly,


June gives Lottie an aptitude test. Films it. Blogs it. Oh, June. How dull you are.

9:31 p.m.

The problem is, I get cockamamie ideas.

I decided to give Lottie a puppy aptitude test tonight (Google fucking "Puppy Aptitude Test"), kind of a personality test, to see if she will grow up to be psycho. In the test, they offer a series of activities to see how your pup–or, oh, spawn of Satan–reacts.

Her usual reaction to everything is "eat the cat." So.

Naturally I videotaped all of it.

Here's the intro veeeeedeo. Someone tell the newcomers why I pronounce it veeeeedeo like an asshole.



I had to call her to see if she comes cheerfully. She'd come if I put an apple in the cats' mouths.


So, she came to me. She can't be all bad. Or can she….? DUN DUN DUNNNNNN.


The next test? See if she'll follow when I leave the room. Warning: My impression of Charles Nelson Riley is so good you'll feel like he's back from the dead. Like I dug him up. Put a jaunty scarf 'round his bonez.

Is CNR actually dead?


I was so pleased, and so annoyed with myself that that video was 36 seconds, that I did it again. Oops I did it again.


Okay, she's been pretty cute, actually. When will she fuck up?! The shadow knows.


The next test involved holding that creature of Satan ON HER BACK for a full 30 SECONDS to see what she'd do. I'll tell you what I thought she'd do, and that was get out her teensy puppy gun and shoot me dead. Is what I thought she'd do.

Here are the chilling results.


So, she fussed a little and then was all, eh. Why bozzer. LOTee no she in chargg.


In the next test, I was to pet her from head to tail, to see how she'd react. I KNEW how she'd react. She'd bite the crap out of me. That's what she does when you try to be NICE and make a NICE DINNER for us to have TOGETHER and instead you decide to WORK LATE with that TRAMP from accounting.

Here's what happened. Watch what happens live.




I explain the next test, in which I must hold Lottie aloft and try to live through it. In the second video, you get quite a trip to June's bosoms. You're most welcome.




I will not show you any more after this, but there were several. My evening involved me throwing a toy and seeing if she reacted to it. I also had to bang pans and throw towels and basically I was useless all night. But here are the riveting results of the toy throw…


Finally, after all Lottie testing was done, here are the results…


And her opinion…


I pity the Blu

7:28 a.m.

I am currently drinking coffee–what addiction?–out of my Mr. Tea mug that Marty and Kaye got me some years back, that remains one of my favorites. Do you have favorite mugs? Do you wait till it's that mug's turn in the cupboard, or do you reach for it first if it's clean? I make my mugs wait their turn. Then all the shitty ones are way in the back and I'll have to be all, Crap. Really? It's thin-mug-that-burns-my-hand day?

When we last spoke, I was debating new shoes, because all of mine were peed on or slightly chewed or just old. Lottie really hasn't ruined any shoes yet, as I am careful to at least place them up high, when walking all the way to the closet is just too exhausting to contemplate.

The other day I was walking at work with Austin, and I told him how I woke up in the middle of the night recently with horrific pain in my back teeth. I knew I'd been grinding them and the pain was exquisite. If I owned aspirin, I'd have taken some. What I did instead was get up and put in my night guard.

"You have a night guard? And you didn't have it in already?" asked Austin, who has a full-time job, two kids, a house, a dog, a cat, a wife and does Cross Fit every single day. Plus he prepares 79 individual containers of healthy snacks for himself that he eats all day at work. You walk into the kitchen and he's, like, wolfing raw brussels sprouts out of a container he brought.

"I was too exhausted to walk to the bathroom to put it in that night," I explained.

The look he gave me was priceless.

Anyway, here. Shut up.


Your basic black middle-aged-divorced-woman wedges. I once heard a group of young bitches teasing one of the other young women at the table for wearing wedges like she's a mom. I tucked mine under my chair. I'm not gonna teeter in pumps for no good reason. I put on a pump, there better be the promise of penis.


Every day at work, we take a walk through the park, something The Other Copy Editor invented, daily walks, and we've kept going with it. But my cankles feel stiff in the morning now and I wonder if it's because I'm clomping around the park in divorce wedges. So. Got these. In my color. You'll see they're already soiled, as I walked the curs in them. The Black Mouth cur and the other cur.

And finally. The peace of resistance. How much do you like me right now?


Ta-DAAAAA! I know, right???! Oh my god, so pleased.

I got to wear the basic black wedges to Alex's little party on Saturday. She recently bought a house and she had a get-together.

"Won't you enjoy my…tomatoes?"

All the Alexes were there. Also, microwaved flowers! Mmmmm!

Not an Alex. But standing near an Alex!

June basks in the rays coming from Alex's head.

When I was out…getting my iPhone fixed (which in some parts of the country is code for buying shoes), I stopped at Ulta ("I thought you hated Ulta, June") because my hairdresser is at the beach, and it's only been three or four weeks anyway, and what roots? Oh my god. Snow on the silver mountain. Rootin' for turnips.


Root root rootin' for the home team.

If you catch my drift.

So I got some root cover, is what I did, because, roots? Root you talkin' 'bout, Willis?

The point is, they had hair powder for $4.99. They had bright blue, pink, and …


lavender. So I sported that at the party, and I am not at all just wearing a bra in this picture. "Honey, You're such an exhibitionist." I can so hear my mom. Also, mom, I got your messages. I kept saying I would call you next, in my own head, in my mind, but then I was busy again. Mostly pulling Lottie off things. But also with this…


It all started yesterday morning, on Facebook, because middle-aged divorced woman. Anyway, I'm on two Edsel support group pages: American Dingo and Carolina Dogs. On one of those pages, we were all grousing about our weird dogs, and someone said her dog destroys every toy. And every other Edsel owner nodded sympathetically and we got up from our folding chairs and had a group hug.

That's when I mentioned Blu. To stop the group hug. "West Paw design makes a toy that's nearly indestructible!" I said, adding the link. "We're on Blu number three, and we're only on three because we left Blu Two somewhere."

I did not go into my own heartbreaking history of moving in with Ned and the tragic demise and how I forgot Blu in my fog of disappointment and agony. And that clearly Jesus the lawn guy tossed Blu, as it is just not in that yard any longer.

Jesus will take your Blu away.

The point is, after I posted that on Facebook, I started wondering how many pictures I could drum up of Edsel with Blu, and I started gathering them, then four hours later I'd made a whole stupid video. Do you have any idea how many "blue" songs I considered? Mr. Blue Sky, but it's really long. Tangled Up in Blue. Also a long song. Blue Monday, but come on.

But this song is perfect. It's kind of gay, plus they SAY gay, and it's jaunty like Edsel. Gay and jaunty like Edsel.

Could not get enough of self that Talu gets Blu in the end, and takes a bow. She only ever played with Blu to piss off Edsel. It was totally obvious. She's totally Lucy and poor Eds is Linus with his blanket.

I fucking love the song Blue Monday. Oh my god, I am so dancing at some bar in Saginaw when this comes on. I wonder if all the dancing I did then negated the 394949494 calories from all my white zinfandel? Probably, as I was 23.


Anyway, that's all my news. I gotta put on my prick suit and get to work. I have no idea why I said that, except Andy Sipowicz used to say that and I always loved it. "Guy put on his prick suit this morning."

Andy Sipowicz is an excellent cat name.

Prick Suitedly,


June accidentally records her life. As opposed to this tome.

I was just uploading photos from my phone onto my computer

mom boreeng

and I saw among the photos a video on there that was half an hour long. "?" I asked myself.

seer y uslee, we so ober this story

I clicked play. It was a blank screen the whole time. You could hear me, what do you know, about to take Tallulah on a walk first, and Edsel had to wait, a thing I had to remind him 39495929 times. My theory is I musta been looking at my phone, accidentally hit the record button, then placed said phone face-down on the couch before taking Lu on her walk.

do anywon have stiff shot of wiskey? eyeriss just want story to end.

You can hear me snapping on Tallulah's leash, and telling distraught Edsel he has to wait (I can't handle them both. I used to be able to, but when they see another dog, they now attack each other, and what I have here is a pack of geniuses), and then you have THIRTY MINUTES of Edsel whining and barking.

Good lord. I had no idea he carried on that much when I left with Talu. Really, it was more 10 minutes of him whining and barking. As I listened to this recording today, both dogs came in, curious. hoo da hell barkeeng? wat a dik.

Eventually you hear him flump onto the couch, dejected, till I finally come in. You hear him jump off the couch, WHICH HE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON, you hear me say hello to Eds and announce my return, and then I snap his leash on. Then I pick up the phone and it's over.

I'm just glad I didn't hear any ghost noises or anything while I was gone because my whole face would just fall off in fear if that had happened.

lillee take lyfe

Okay, FINE. I'm done with that story. God.

o thank godz

I have to get to work. We have a two-hour meeting right during lunch with no lunch served, and of course I have no take-it-with-you-how-convenient things to snack on in order to live through that, so I have to go scrounge my cupboards like I'm a bear in a cabin.

Everyone tell me a story of a time you were humiliated in your youth. I always like when we have "everyone tell me stories" day. Those after-someone-dies stories the other day were EFFING RIVETING. As opposed to my story above.



The one where June makes hilarious Presidents Day puns

Edsel doing his sled dog impression. Or his Mushmouth impresh. Whichever.

It snowed again, which is very exciting for us here. My work is delayed a crummy hour. Given how much sliding down my street I did last night, I thought maybe they'd close the whole thing down. But no. I hope this weather won't interfere with all my day-after-Valentine's-Day flowers I am to get at work. My Presidents Day flowers. Because I'm a capitol gal.


A lot of this weekend involved watching old movies while trying to avoid my statistics textbook, and feeding Talu whatever she wanted. She's been on this pill for a few days that's supposed to shrink or at least slow her tumor, and she seems to be feeling much better. She even harrrrrred yesterday. That's this thing she does where she buries her snout in the carpet or bed and snurfs around and eventually falls down and rolls and says, "Harrrrr, HARRRRRRR." She's always done it and I have no idea what it's about, other than happy.

Remember when I called that pet psychic the other day? She emailed me to ask if she'd sent me the CD of our session. "No," I wrote back, "but I also haven't paid you. I'm so sorry." I told her about Talu and how I'm forgetting everything other than staring at my dog. "Oh, my god, don't even worry about paying me," she wrote. "Let me talk to Tallulah."

Later, she sent me an email. She said she told Tallulah that her tumor was inoperable, but I would make her comfortable and that a nice woman was coming over to peacefully let her go when it's time. (That same poor soul who used to come make house calls for Francis.)

Then she told me that Tallulah said thank you for telling her what's going on, and for making sure we have more time together. That she will be appreciative when the woman comes to the house to end her pain. She said to tell me she has loved our time together, "You've given me so much" and that she will always be my Tallulah. "I trust you with all of me," Tallulah allegedly said.

OH MY GOD. So that was a sobfest. Despite Lexapro.

Really, I feel like if Tallulah could talk, it would mostly be about food. But what do I know? I see her being food-driven like Ned. "Do mom remember that grouper Lu had in May of 2013?"


People have sent Lu treats, and tons of emails, and my coworker Slutty Pancakes gave me this Talu picture. Everyone feels bad about dead dogs. That's just how it is. Dogs are so much more appealing than us, I guess, even the bite-y ones.


ded dawgs. hooo care?

Lily, sittin' on my statistics. Because cats don't give a SHIT what you're doing or when your deadline is.

I did take my statistics and my ass downtown Saturday afternoon, and did my work at the bookstore, where they have coffee and some food. I got (and I hate to sound like Tallulah and Ned) an absolutely delicious ham and cheddar sandwich on focca–foca-foocaa–flat bread. The side was grape tomatoes with olive oil and basil, which I put ON the sandwich and holy mother of Christ.

I sat in the window, not that I'm a bird or a mannequin. They have little tables in the window. I wasn't there 10 minutes before I saw someone I know, and had to converse, but after that I spent three hours in peace, doing my work. There was an unlovely couple there, clearly on a first date, and they seemed to be having a good time. They were similarly unlovely, but as I watched surreptitiously from my table, they both got lovelier because they both seemed to be getting happier as the date went better and better. It was really very sweet, although if you ask me, it wouldn't have killed the woman to have put on something cuter and to knock it off with all the talk about her kid.

Said the person who spent 89 paragraphs on her dog.

Other than proofreading statistics and staring at the dog and watching old movies, my weekend culminated in going to my friend The Other Copy Editor's house to attend her Valentine's Day dinner party last night. Before I got there, I headed to the inconvenience store on my corner, which never has anything except they do have Kendall Jackson Chardonnay, which is good. I don't know if anyone remembers Valentine's Day 2012 in your Big Book of June Events, but Ned and I had just met, had had maybe three dates, when he was felled by illness right before V-Day. I remember he sent me an e-card, and later told me he was in bed that whole day, and the only time he got out was to send me that card and fall back into bed.

Anyway, it was just me and me that V-Day, so I went to the inconvenience store for a romantic dinner with my good friends Kendall and Jackson and maybe some salt-and-vinegar potato chips. There was Harry, the guy who was always my guy at the inconvenience store. He called himself Harry, but his real name was something like AbuDabuGaneshapur or something.

Was that racist?

"Oh, June, are you alone on Valentine's Day?" he asked me.

"Well, sort of. See I've just started seeing–"

"Oh, I am alone, too, Miss June. I am so lonely," he told me. "Why don't I bring a bottle of wine to your house after work? We spend this day together."

And that is how I ended up pulling my car as far up the driveway as possible, to try to hide my YELLOW FREAKING BUG from Harry in case he went looking for me after his lonely shift.

The point is, Harry wasn't there last night, although I was kind of hoping he would be, to bookend that event. Instead it was a kind of hot girl of color who was funny, but that's neither here nor there.


The inconvenience store was out of Kendall Jackson, clean out, so I had to get some shitty Chardonnay and head to TOCE's house. It was just starting to snow when I got to her street.


But it was so cozy at her house.


I love how the Baby Boomers are having a conversation and the Millennials are looking at their phones. Hello, stereotypes.



I don't know how I managed to get myself in focus and everyone else is a soft blur, but it kind of sums up all my relationships. The food at that party was so good that it was the kind of thing where you just want to be alone with it and stroke your plate lovingly. I'd have gotten up for fourths if I could have. Holy crap.

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I was there for two hours and it managed to snow like a banshee in those two hours. Then I had to slide home terrifyingly (yes, I HAVE forgotten I grew up in Michigan) and had to clomp through this tundra in high-heeled boots to take out my trash and Peg's trash, forgetting that today is Presidents Day and fuck.

I know you wish I'd talk more but now I have to go to work. Happy Presidents Day. In honor of it, I'm Lincoln to my latest Purple Clover. In which I talk about naked teenage boys of color. So. Hope you think my article is da O-bam-a.

Don't Washington your hands of me. I'll Fillmore of your needs tomorrow. And I'll be Nixon this kind of talk. It's Tru, Man.

Where June somehow mentions Princess Di, human trafficking and QVC in one post.

At work, a bunch of us are doing Dresscember, which is this challenge where you wear a dress every day in December, even on your ding-dang days off, as kind of a fundraiser to say, hey, I hate human trafficking.

I HATE Uncle Jamie.

Do you want to know what annoys me? Is just try to get one simple sentence that is SPECIFIC about this event. Here is the website for Dresscember. I linked you above to where you can donate to my specific fundraiser, because I know you're saying, "It's December! I'm not spending my money on anything else. Why not June's cause?"

Oh, and here. This was the best (edited by me) paragraph I could find on what we're doing…

Dressember opposes the worldwide trafficking and exploitation of women. Dressember works to rescue victims of slavery, sexual exploitation, and other forms of violent oppression. Those who participate in Dressember are supporting the abolition of modern-day slavery. 

What I have learned, as someone who writes and edits stuff you're supposed to want to buy for a living? Is once you've gotten really familiar with whatever it is you're selling or advocating or whatever? You get what's called the Curse of Knowledge. As in, you're too close to it and you can't explain it simply and clearly anymore. Like, did you ever have a doctor tell you what's wrong, but all his terms are so medical that you're all, what the…? Am I dying or do I have a cold? Of course, in my case, when you have a cold, you're basically dying.

Anyway, that's what I found with this organization, the Curse of Knowledge. They kept giving me vague, flowery descriptions of why I'm wearing a DING-DANG DRESS ALL DECEMBER–did I mention that?–and I just wanted a simple, declarative sentence that was, oh, precise.

The point is, I went stampeding into work yesterday in a dress. I own two dresses, one of them my wedding dress and the other my 1983 prom dress, and I walked in yesterday and there're all my coworkers, sportin' the pants. I put my hands on my be-dressed hips.

"I thought we were doing Dresscember!"

No one looked up. "We are. Today's November 30," said Fleeta.

Son of a…

So I'm wearing a dress again TODAY, which is enclosed for your viewing pleasure. Yes, that IS my Princess Diana ring from QVC. Shut up, dick. That was kind of Diana's signature line: "Shut up, dick."

I meant to take a picture of yesterday's dress I wore by accident, but you know Mondays are busy for me, as I have a Purple Clover deadline. Here, by the way, is last week's Purple Clover.

And here, once again, is the link if you wish to donate to the Dresscember cause. If you don't, you're saying you LOVE enslaved women. That's all. Don't feel bad about that. By the way, I'm the one who thought of our team name: Addressing the Issue. Love for self will never die. Love for self is here to stay.

In the meantime, tonight's my work Christmas party, and yes, we call it a Christmas party, none of this pussyfooting around. Everything's an argument anymore, you ever notice that? We got nervous people flapping their hands on one side saying we gotta include everyone, then we got the (let's face it) fairly bigoted folk on the other saying, Fuck that. Really, you're all being repugnant. Can't we just live and let live? Don't get your hemp blouse in a twist over a word, and don't get your Confederate flag all mussed over someone else's wants. Geez.

June for President.

Anyway, that's exciting, my work CHRISTMAS party and all. I'm going with my friend The Naughty Professor, who in fact used to work where I work, and he just left this year after about 109 years there.

Four years ago, I took Dick Whitman to my work Christmas party, and afterward we came back here for awhile, and as we were kibbitzing, my cat Roger opened the back door and ran out. He could open the doors. "Roger, don't go out," I yelled after him. That was the last I ever saw of him. He got out of my fenced yard, who knows how, into Peg's yard which is ALSO fenced, escaped THAT and got run over.

That was a terrible time. Roger was so effing cool. Anyway, I think of that every work Christmas party, so thanks, memories.

Shut up, dicks.