June loses the moon

There’s something very smug-inducing about leaving your workout and the moon is still out. Like, you’re done and the sun hasn’t come up yet. Very Army.

I did Pure Barre at 6 a.m. today, obvs. And I say obvs because look at this ass. How can you miss it. …Okay, maybe the results of Pure Barre haven’t quite set in yet.

Not a portrait of my actual ass

Yesterday was a good mail day. Faithful Reader Fay sent me Fiona the Hippo. I see that when they blew stuff around my camellias that it soiled the window, and now my ridiculous handyman Alf has a new thing to do. Today he is coming to fix the rod in my closet, which sounds like a euphemism but I swear it is not. I’d have to kill Alf before I let him “fix” the rod in my “closet.” Actually when you break it down that way it doesn’t even make sense as a euphemism.

Alf is someone I am sincerely fond of, who does everything he can to annoy me. Right there is the conundrum. Really, I am telling you this here so when I finally kill him, I’ll have evidence that I was driven to it. That’s how getting out of murder works, right?

I never watch those murder shows. Maybe I need to bone up. Which is also something Alf isn’t going to do around here.

IMG_3508.jpgAnyway, also, my father sent me a paper towel holder. He is a very kitchen-y person, and I guess knowing my paper towels were rolling around unchaperoned on my counter is very Third World to him. So now I have the World’s Fanciest Paper Towel Holder®. With a five-year warranty!

After the excitement of the mail day wore off, my Aunt Kathy sent me an email. “I don’t know how to send a link,” she wrote, “but if you Google [insert thing she said here], you can find an interview I did!”

This was all a Very Aunt Kathy email. The internet is her bailiwick. She might start working at the Apple store.

Here. Here is the elusive link. This was maybe four years ago, that this interview took place, and Dear Aunt Kathy: You look way hotter now. She’s lost weight, for one, and her hair is better.

Anyway, if you know my aunt, you know that the part where she tears up during the interview is rare and elusive. It’s the unicorn of Aunt Kathy emotions.

Aunt Kathy and I have always been more similar than my relatively steady mother and I. Not that I cry a lot; I don’t. But one might say my every emotion is rather…close to the surface.

Have I ever told you the scary mammogram story? I mean, I know I have. I regale you with that motherfucker every mammogram season. But what I mean is, after the stupid general practitioner said, “Prepare for the worst,” I did what any adult woman would do: I called my mother. I told her the story thus far.

My mother paused. She breathed deeply and serenly. “Well, we don’t really know anything yet,” she said, with all the animation of Liberace at a titty bar.

After we had our even-keeled conversation, I called my Aunt Kathy. Told her the story. Here was her response:


So. Aunt Kathy and me. Same.

Why was I on this tangent? I forget.

IMG_3496.jpgHere’s today’s Chubby Stick lip color, in a shade called FOR FUCK’S SAKE I CAN’T FIND IT. I put it on yesterday at lunchtime, and although it looks as though I’m posing for my senior picture, really the guy across the street had called an ambulance again. He’s 109, and calls an ambulance all the time.

IMG_3498.jpgThis doesn’t stop me from Gladys Kravitzing every time he does it.


My point is, just now I looked in the tray, and that one color is missing GODDAMMIT. So I looked in my purse, that endless endless bowel that is my purse, with its 86 zipper compartments and 29 pockets, and I don’t see it. I also looked around that chair I was splayed on, but no.

I just went online, Googled the names of the damn colors, and I think that was Roundest Raspberry.

Oh, hell. I think we’ve done all of them, actually. Because the next one is Grandest Grape, and we already did that, didn’t we? This is why you shouldn’t let me be in charge of things.

I’ll figure it out tonight and present you with a grand finale of all 21 stupid colors, none of which were all that colorful, if you ask me.


While I’ve been talking to you and tryina figure out lip colors like it’s interesting, I’ve been eating my protein bar, in the hopes that I won’t get to work and want a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit after allegedly burning 394959394 calories at 6 a.m. because I’m in the Army.

Do you capitalize “Army”?

I guess that’s all my big news for now. Oh, I just noticed the date and remembered today is my six-year anniversary of having Lily. I’d already snagged Iris, maybe a week before I got Lily. Before that I’d been out of cats. And now there’s a cacophony of them!

IMG_3513.jpgI just got up to take a photo of the cacophony of cats, and this was the best I could do. Hey, why are my wood floors dull? I mean other than the fact that 32 paws traverse them daily. How do you make ’em shiny again?

I guess I have to Bona them. Which is not a euphemism and here we are back at the beginning.

Talk to you tomorrow, but before I go, what smell makes you the most nostalgic? I was thinking about this last night. I was tryina sleep early cause I knew I had to get up at 5:30, but there was this…BRIGHT LIGHT shining into my window, and I was all, What the hell is that? Ima give the gaybors a piece of my mind if they…

…it was the moon. The moon! Then I didn’t mind the light so much. But anyway that’s what I thought of as I lay there wishing I’d fall the hell asleep already. Why are we always awake when we don’t want to be and sleepy when we can’t be? Why?

So. Smells.

For me, definitely Vick’s Vapo-Rub. And probably really cold winter smells that I can’t remember anymore because I’m never back in Michigan in winter unless someone falls over dead.

I was home in early September once, but just once, and in the early morning it was already frosty, and just the feel of that was very nostalgic to me. The smell of the leaves and the frost and how it was still KIND of summer, but also headed quickly to fall.

You know how if your hair is one way, let’s just say curly, to throw a scenario out there and how’d I think of that. So, your hair is one way, but you do something to it to make it the other way, like straight, but your hair WANTS to be the other way, so as soon as it can, it starts to curl the fuck back up.

That’s how Michigan feels. Sure, it’ll give you two and a half months of “summer,” but it really wants to go back to being cold.

While I’ve been talking to you, the moon went away. I guess I’d better get to work.



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

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

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

How about neither, June.

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


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


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


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

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

I didn’t take any Ritalin today.

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

No one names their kid Abraham anymore.


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

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

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

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

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

This is why I’m single.

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

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

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

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

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

I did some quick maths.

Oh, June.

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

“About 3,000,” I announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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



Mrs. Garrett was probably younger than me

On the first day of 2011, Ned got out of bed, walked into a wall and broke his toe.

And hey, June, this bodes well. A mention of Ned in the first sentence of your first post of the new year. Yeah, good moving on.

Anyway, he did, and he told himself, “Well, that’s a sign you aren’t going to have a good year. You’d better just keep your head down and muddle through 2011.” And he was right.

He was newly back in his hometown of Greensboro, having spent his adult life in Raleigh (inside guff for outsiders: Raleigh is way cooler to live in than Greensboro), he was working for the family business after a decade of doing something he truly loved

(he’d been a professional beer taster)

(he was hired full time to ogle women)

(they needed an expert salad-eater, and he took on the job)

(he wrote a weekly column titled, “You Know What I’D Do…”)

(okay, I’ll stop),

and he had zero girlfriend.

So he got through 2011, and on the fifth day of 2012, he met me. WHAT. LUCK. REWARD! SILVER LINING!

The point of me telling you this is the very first thing to happen to me today was that my clothes pole…thing in the walk-in closet of my bedroom? Crashed ONTO MY FINGER today. Then after that, all the clothes that had been residing on said pole similarly fell onto my finger.

Inside guff for outsiders: It hurt.

“Oh my god,” I told myself. “I’m Ned in 2011.”

I’d had such high hopes for 2018, too. As you may know, as I very subtly alluded to it earlier this week, I’ve had something of a cold. No big deal, really. I hate to cause a fuss. Anyway, yesterday I ended up being asked to a little celebration, a little reason for the season, and that reason is Prosecco.

But given the precarious nature of my health, I thought I’d better test my reserves, so I took myself to see The Shape of Water first, at the movie theater near my house. I figured if I could sit up and take nourishment (popcorn and a Dr Pepper) for two hours, maybe I was ready for the big leagues, aka a middle-aged mild New Year’s celebration.

First of all, The Shape of Water. Highly recommend. And not just cause everything’s midcentury and you know how I get about that.

So I slapped on the makeup and headed into the middle-aged night and rang in the new year and was in REM by about 12:01. Still. I got out. I didn’t even take 47 Kleenex.

Screen Shot 2018-01-01 at 9.14.16 PM.png

Me and m’New Year’s makeup and several heavy Instagram filters. You, too can feign rosy health!

So that all seemed to go so well and then boom. Pole on m’finger.

I did not go to my annual ironically named kindness meditation downtown, as it was 870 below zero today, and the only kindness I could meditate on was not doing that to myself given that I just got out of my iron lung with this cold. Instead I paid my bills, wrote in my new journal I got for Xmas (thanks, mom), checked my finger to see if it was turning black, and talked on the phone to my old LA neighbor Alicia for about 700 hours.

This time I wrote down some of the funny English-but-not-quite-English things she said during our 11-hour conversation. I have always loved the way she uses language. She’s like a little angry Spanish poem. Attached below, for your edification, are some of the things she said that I adored so much I wrote them down…

“She had to come up and tell me what she thought. She had to put her five cents on me.”


“I have bumped heads with that bitch for years.” This, by the way, was about someone famous, but I cannot, really cannot tell you who. BUT YOU WOULD DIE.

“Finally, we said okay. We bury the hatchets.”

plus also

“She was mad. She did not like that I was in her ass.”

And the grand finale:

“I tell her, ‘Stick it in your ass and shove it.'”

I’m just telling you now. “Stick it in your ass and shove it” is the new “Very nice, Coot.” Although I have to say I grow fonder by the minute of “bury the hatchets.”

I’d been guarding my pole finger jealously all day, assuming the nail was going to turn dramatically black, because I see my finger and I want it painted black. Nevertheless, my finger persisted, and while it’s SORE, it appears I may have exaggerated what I thought would be the effect of that ENTIRE POLE OF CLOTHES crashing down on it.

I took my black finger of death and all the rest of my digits to the grocer’s, and I like how all of a sudden it’s 1950 up in here, with my grocer. Mr. Hooper was waiting for me in his white apron.


I got my usual Sad Single Girl items, such as Lean Cusine and cat litter.

(I have forever wanted to find this one Nick at Night promo ad they used to have with Sally from the Dick Van Dyke show. I know it went: “Sally is single. Single, single, single.” I can never find it. I always identified with Sally, the wisecracking writer, and now she’s dead and I can’t find that promo and my finger is gangrenous.)


The point is, I bought my week’s groceries and got this urge to buy an instant lottery ticket. I almost never do this, because (a) I never have cash and (4) I just never remember we have machines at the store. But the universe colluded or whatever, or the Ghost of Sally came over me, because we all know how famous her character was for buying lottery tickets.

Anyway, I won $100. I bought one ticket for one dollar, and I won $100. Can you believe it?! I’m RICH.

I scratched off my ticket in the cold parking lot of the store, of the grocer, and ran back in to tell Mr. Hooper, who has apparently turned into a 20-year-old black kid. When young Mr. Hooper ran the scanner thing over my card, it played a little song and everything. It was so exciting.

“2018 is gonna be my year!” I announced to Mr. Hooper, and stampeded back to my car, where I excitedly plunked back down in the driver’s seat,

on right onto my glasses. Which broke into 90 pieces.

So, you take the good, you take the bad, you take ’em both and there you have 2018 so far.

Happy new year. I hope you will not feel the need to stick this year up your ass and shove it.

P.S. I imagine “promo ad” is redundant, is it not? Son of a bitch. Thank god I have all this money.

P.P.S. Super Strawberry. Dammit. I keep forgetting.

Should auld acquaintance be annoying

Does my new computer make me look fat?Computers. Now with Kleenex! What cold?

I like how there’s a Kleenex on one of my computers. You know I hate to mention it, but I have a cold.

Anyway, you can’t tell if my new Mac makes me look fat yet because you will be stunned to hear I’m having trouble migrating my old computer’s information onto my new computer. Several hours with AppleCare have occurred. Several swears have similarly occurred.

In fact, I put off opening my new computer because I knew it was going to put me in a foul mood, and here I am, in a foul mood.

So here I sit, on the last day of the year, in my drafty computer room looking out at the bare trees, talking into my phone like a crazy person.

I guess people have talked into their phones for years and it’s not so crazy, but I am, in fact, talking to no one. That is the crazy part. The part where I’m speaking into a void.

I really wanted to make an updated end-of-the-year video for you, because even though I said in early December, “What could really happen to me this last month?” I did, in fact, have some interesting things happen. My visit to TinyTown. My foster kitten.

But now my computers are migrating, and picking up work while they can, picking grapes and so on, and I can’t make you a new end-of-the-year video. So I will sit here and speak into your void.

Yesterday, I put Jodie Foster in her little cat carrier, and took her away from the home she has known for two weeks–with cats she adores and a dog she loved to pick on–and back to the shelter.

She was healthy enough and big enough to be adopted. It was really difficult to do, seeing how well she got on with everyone here, and the thought of her shivering in the shelter, scared and confused, was like to kill me.

o fux

But that was the deal I made, and I know I did her some good letting her stay with me.

Yesterday at 5 PM, I couldn’t stand it anymore and I called the shelter.

“Yes,” (because you know I always have to start those phone calls with “yes”), “I fostered a little kitten named Lilly Lu?” (That was her name at the shelter. Lilly Lu. Are you dying?) “And I dropped her back off this morning for adoption. Did anyone happen to adopt her today?”

The worker looked through her papers. She asked me some questions. “The little orange one?” More papers. Oh my god, lady. My heart was racing.

“…Oh, yes, ma’am, she sure did get adopted today.”




I knew it was looking good for her yesterday. While I was waiting for the foster lady to come out, I walked around the shelter and looked at the other cats, and there were barely any left. When I took the kitten to get her booster shot a couple days before Christmas, it was like Calcutta in that shelter. There were people everywhere.

And of course, now I feel sorry for the couple of loser adult cats who didn’t get adopted by anyone for Christmas. But I’m trying to put them out of my mind.

You have no idea how relieved I feel. Jody Foster did not have to even spend one more night in the shelter. She got swooped up.Of coarse she do

After taking that kitten to the shelter, I may or may not have stopped off for a pork chop biscuit that I couldn’t even taste, so basically all of the calories, none of the flavor, and then I bought a new pair of glasses.

I bought my last pair in 2015, and my prescription has changed twice since then. Plus, I don’t know, I was just in the mood. I’ll show them to you when they get in, but the point is, as soon as I got home I found these online and wanted to kill myself.

Yes, those are little diamonds. Well, not real diamonds, but you know what I mean.

doooeng mom impresh

After all that, I felt pretty punky. Is punky even a word? I didn’t feel well. So I came back home and sat with my Kleenex and convalesced.

It has dawned on me this week while I have been sick, and I know I’ve hardly mentioned my sickness, that when I feel like this all I really want is my grandmother. The nice one. Not the one I’m turning into.

I want to be in her very warm, old lady house with the cuckoo clock ticking and the theme song for Days of our Lives in the background.

I want her to bring me orange juice and for her to call me “grandma’s baby.”

That’s all I really want. If I could ever find someone who would dote on me and act so tragic about me having a common cold, then I’ll know I’ve met the person for me.

I thought about that yesterday, and I thought about my kitten. When I was a little kid and had a cold and went to grandma’s and she doted on me, I’m sure at the time all I thought about was that I had a damn cold and felt miserable.

And two weeks ago, when I went to the shelter to foster a kitten, my idea was that she would be this little thing in the back rooms, and that I would go in there and spend time with her. I had no idea she would become such an integral part of all the lives of all the creatures who live here. Including the ear mites.

My point is, when we’re making memories we’re never aware of it. I will go my whole life wanting my grandmother to be back, putting her hand on my forehead and exclaiming how I’m burning up.

And every once in awhile I’ll say, “Remember that time I fostered a kitten for two weeks? And she was so wonderful?”

But we never know what things will turn out to be wonderful memories. We plan a fabulous vacation, and then we get there and it rains every day and we never really remember that vacation. But we go out the door one day just to run errands, and something magical happens that we remember that day forever.

I guess what I’m saying is, I hope 2018 brings you a lot of memories that you don’t even know you’re going to have while you’re sitting here today, with the cold wind and the bare branches around you.

I hope that next year at this time, you look back on the year that was and say, “Wow. There are a lot of good memories from 2018.”

Because even a sick day with bare branches can turn out to be memorable.

See you next year. HAHAHAHAHAHA.


Today’s lipstick. It’s something-Punch. I know I look marvelous. What illness?

For Dramatic Effect

What are we on? Like, day 193 of this cold? That’s my estimate.

Yesterday at work, I minced over to one of the seven people who are actually working this week, and announced, “I have a cold.” I may’ve even brought m’Kleenex box over, for dramatic effect. Which should be the title of my book: For Dramatic Effect.

“I guess I do too,” said my coworker, his Kleenex box off in the distance.

He guesses. He guesses he does too. Oh, stop being so low key.

Before we get onto other topics, like delving further into my cold, and by the way, you need to get home and get some rest. There’s no point pacing the halls worrying about me. I’ll need your strength when I regain consciousness.

Anyway, before we create a poll titled, How sorry do you feel for June, let’s look at today’s lipstick.

Say, June, we’ve enjoyed that blemish as much as a human can.

Today’s OFFICIAL color is Whoppin’ Watermelon, and I had to get THIS CLOSE to even show that I HAD a color on. I’m like that guy at work. I guess I have lipstick on.

IMG_3326.JPGSo, because that was so boring, we stampeded to Pudgy Peony, and also Edsel’s undying love for me. I think he senses the end is near for me.

to putt kitteee DOWN, pudgeee peee oh nee.

I don’t want you to get excited or anything, but tomorrow is Plushest Punch. If I live that long.

IMG_3314.JPGI saw this yesterday at the gas station, and I was all, Really? Cause I’m doubting that.

Also happening tomorrow, besides my continued silent suffering with this cold and Plushest Punch, is The Return of the Foster Kitten. She will be done with her antibiotics tomorrow, and when I take her back, on a Saturday morning, she will be the only kitten currently available.

This bodes well for her future.

Taken right this second.

IMG_3334.JPGIMG_3338.JPGSay, June, is it gonna kill you to take her to a shelter and drive away? Why, yes. Yes, it do be.

Also, she photographs big. In all pictures, she looks almost like a catten, when in fact she’s just a teensy boop. Half the time I don’t know where she is, she’s so teensy.

So that should be devoid of tears, anyway, and I’m sure I’ll handle it as stoically as I do all colds.

Today is the last day before the New Year’s holiday, so I hope we get out early, because I feel magnificent. Ironically, I was invited to a happy hour, after all that fuss last week, and I’m too sick to go. Ned once told me I want to be asked to do things just so I can say no: Attend parties, happy hours, sex. Whatever with Ned.

The point of all this is two things: One: My new computer, which I can ill afford, is on its way to work today. I’m glad I had it sent there because someone on Next Door has one of those paranoid cameras on her front porch, and she shared video of some kid stealing her package, so to speak.

So I have all weekend to figure out how to transfer all my shit from one computer to another, and it’s good Jodie Foster is leaving, because no child needs to hear that many swears.

The other point is, yesterday I was sitting there with the seven other people who came to work, and I was all, “This is the seventh Christmas I’ve worked. There is only one copy editor who’s worked here longer than me. (The first is The Poet, who has worked there since 18 aught 9.) I’M SICK, and I have FIVE vacation days I did not take this year.


So you know what I did? I went into our little system and requested December 26, 27 and 28 off for 2018.


IMG_E3322.JPGBefore I go, two things. Didn’t we just do a “two things”? Faithful Reader Deborah, look what’s on my table!

And deux, you know I adore my banner picture at the top of this not-a-blog. I love it so hard. But I thought for New Year’s, I’d throw in a different, seasonal shot. There were SO MANY I couldn’t choose! I thought I’d share them with the crowd. Also, can someone bring me more coffee? Jodie Foster is purring on my lap and I feel bad moving her.

She’s been my little orange companion

Okay, here are the photos I loved. And I realize I’m the only freak who loves looking at old photos of people she doesn’t know, so you can probably just close your laptop now and check back tomorrow.


Oh my god, right? In all my friendships, I’m Pudgy Peony, up there.

d025e8c5f0550ddf85c770b4cbc6d64f--happy-new-years-eve-happy-new-year-everyone.jpgAnd although I know this, I still secretly see myself looking like this every New Year’s Eve. Blowing into a flashlight.

bc7441ad4ac5f4cc4d5ef3fb84dc2d05--new-years-eve-basementsOh my god, take me to this party. I’ll give my cold to everyone. That woman on the right is looking at old pictures of people she doesn’t know.

Celebrating New Year's Eve

Our problem is, we don’t get drunk enough anymore. My father once told me about a party he went to with younger people, and they kept turning DOWN the music. That’s when he knew. This next generation is zero fun.

991ec58db7ed638ffe700bc15fa57869--vintage-ladies-vintage-stuff.jpgOh, THERE’S my soulmate. Also, LEOPARD PUMPS.

a78da0df05ace7bd7cf5ac421d4aba01--new-years-eve-happy-new-year.jpgOkay. That’s it. My life is FUCKING COMPLETE. The last two pictures are my perfect How I see Myself/How I Actually Am, including the cankles.

I’d better get to work, as it is important that I martyr as much as possible before the year is through. I figured it out, and I made 28% more money this year, due to the freelancing.

DAMN, Daniel.

I also had like zero free evenings, so. I had zero free evenings to learn phrases other than the tired Damn, Daniel.

I gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow, after I drop off Jodie Foster. Someone zip over to the animal shelter here and get her.



Sufferin’ Juneotash

I hate to burst in and destroy your 2018, like Godzilla stomping through your city, but I have a cold.

My throat hurts, I’m all achy, my ears have that thing where they itch way on the inside and you can’t scratch them cause it’s really your brain that itches or whatever.

IMG_3289.JPGIMG_3291.JPGYou’d think my cats would be holding an eternal vigil, but they are not.

You know, sitting here, the floor and the washer don’t LOOK dirty, but I take a photo and I’m all, wow, that washer needs to be, like, wiped down or whatever.

Plus, there’s a spot on that linoleum that’s just forever stained. See it, the second blue square in from Jodie Foster? It’s just permanently sort of brown. I blame Lottie.

Good lord, this house has hosted the animals.

IMG_3265.jpgAnyway, despite my raging cold, I schlepped into work yesterday and the first person I saw was the mailroom guy. “Oh, I have a package for you,” he said, and handed me a box. It’s this great clock from a faithful reader! Isn’t it magnificent?! It was on my wish list, my Amazon Wish List. Oooo, I should link to Amazon.

“I want a clock just like Hune’s! If I click on this green clock, I can be on Amazon and buy just anything, and Hune gets rich! Maybe if she gets rich enough, she’ll stop saying ‘Hune.'”

Do you know anyone worse at remembering she’s an Amazon Associate? Anyone?

Bueller? You know what that is? ‘Nother link.

Oh my god anyway, I love my clock, and I put it in the living room because I never ever know what time it is in there, like it’s Las Vegas.

Then at night, despite my killing-me throat and my general aches and pains of having a major cold, I —

Just now, Lily, whom I’ve already let out and back in again today, asked to go out again. I opened the main door, then stood at the screen while Lily pondered the meaning of going outside, and considered if she really meant it and so forth, when


Steely Dan burst past us, got on his hind legs and pushed the door open, and ran out, all in one smooth gesture.

Lily kind of waddled after him.

Anyway, because trouper, last night I drove to this restaurant I’d never been to to get up with Kit and Jo. Ko.

Me. I never let on I wasn’t feeling well.

On the way there, my friend Beige called me. Her name isn’t actually Beige, but I’ve always called her that and that’s how she’s in my phone. “I’m right near this restaurant, but I can’t find it,” I told her. “I’ll call you later.”

As soon as I sat down, Faithful Reader Happy texted me with a video of that white cat she has, that Ned might like. Then after the video she sent two more texts. “Boop!” said my phone, then “boop!” followed by “boop!”

“At dinner, talk later,” I wrote hurriedly, as gifts were exchanged among us. Jo is a real gifty type.


Then my father called.

Then Miss Doxie texted.

Then Fay texted.

Not to mention my blog comments were blowing up last night.

Then TinaDoris answered my earlier text about how I was feeling ill and wasn’t going to Pure Barrrrre Thursday morning. She texted three times.

Then Ned called.

Then I got the World’s Longest Email from a new reader, which, Dear New Reader: I haven’t read yet.

Then I SWEAR TO YOU, someone I went to school with in fourth grade wrote me to say she had an old photo of us, and where should she send it.

Seriously, that all happened within the first 30 minutes I was there. It was like all of a sudden everyone I’d ever known wanted to speak with me between 7 and 8 p.m. on a Wednesday. I like how I said “30 minutes” then “7 and 8.” Maths.

Old photo my classmate sent me.

Okay, this is the greatest thing ever. The “R” is for “Redeemer.” There’s religious June, gettin’ her Redeemer on. (I went to a Lutheran elementary school. Yes, I did.)

I am the top girl (I sure am) on the right, in the pigtails. I was able to name everyone else in this photo except I can’t remember the girl in the middle’s first name. Doreece? Dorrena? I know her last name was Hopeck. Her mom was our Brownie leader. Her name was…Mrs. Hopeck. You’re welcome.

Hell. Or, Redeemer. I wish I could recall that girl’s name.

Anyway, after my Hour of Popularity, and after Ko and I discussed everything from talking dirty to Dick Whitman’s mom–fortunately we did not combine those subjects–it was time for me to go. Jit, over there, the Kit and Jo combo, were gonna move on to a bar, but I was in need of an IV drip, so ill was I, and plus also it was 9:30 already, so.

“Orange you glad our mom izzn’t a puzzy?” “Orange you thinkeeng maybe she DO be a puzzy?”

As I drove home, I told my phone to call Beige back.

“Calling Beee-aaage,” said my phone, who can’t speak fucking English. If you’re gonna be in this country, man. English is our language, man. (I love people.)

My phone also tells me to take the exit toward the airport sometimes? But it pronounces it “Peedmont Inter-na-seeeee-on-all.” Kills me every time. Why doesn’t it know “international”?

I realize it’s, like, miraculous that I can take my phone with me and not have to drag the cord onto the stairway like I did circa 1982. I realize that the fact that my phone can TALK to me and CALL PEOPLE FOR ME is also, you know, exciting.

Still. Get it right. Beeee-age. Pfft.


Actually, while I’m thinking of it, you know that cool photo my old schoolmate wanted to send me? She’s not the first person to email me via the “Contact me” feature on my blog to wonder how to get in contact with me, so let me just say now that the contact me feature is just an email address, so anything you want to email me, that’s where to do it.

I think if you’re gonna attach a photo, you might have to write me once, then I write back, and THEN it becomes just a regular email between us and you can attach a photo.

o edzul god. shut upz, mom.

I’d better go back to work and martyr through my day. Probably I should be certain to bring a giant box of Kleenex to really drive the point home. Perhaps I could even arrive in slippers, for added effect.

Portrait of a cold sufferer

Here is our Clinique Chubby Stick of the day in Plumped-Up Pink. This will look good when I’m in my casket.



Just a reminder

I just logged onto Facebook for literally one minute, saw I had SEVENTEEN PERSONAL MESSAGES ON MESSENGER and deactivated again.

I keep saying this, and I’ll say it again. PLEASE don’t message me there. A crazy person left me some messages there in October and November, and they really bothered me.

Please don’t give me advice re that. I already blocked her. She came back with another account. I deleted Messenger. It still tells me I have messages, I just can’t SEE them, which is just as scary, thinking one is hovering there to re-traumatize me.

The best I can do is deactivate my account until seeing I have messages on Facebook doesn’t make me shake and sweat and get nauseated.

So, I’ve said it on Facebook of June. I’ve said it here. I’ve also said it in general posts on Facebook. But ONCE AGAIN, please don’t message me there. Email me here. Leave a comment. Text me if you know me in real life.

(And that goes for messaging me on Instagram too. Unlike everyone else, I use my real name there, which, why doesn’t everyone? Cause if your handle on Instagram is Boop-a-Loop, and I come across your photo of your dinner, how the FUCK am I supposed to know whose dinner this is? “Oh, look what Boop-a-Loop made! Gosh darn her! Whoever the FUCK she is.”)

(Anyway, since I use my name, my fear is, since she was crafty enough to create all new profiles on Facebook in order to contact me, wouldn’t she also consider searching for me on Instagram? So I get my PTSD when I have an Instagram message, too.)



Jooon, aka Boop-a-Loop

Oh, did sleigh bells ring? I had my ringer off.

Welp. Christmas. We got through it, and now my throat hurts, so the one holiday I can kind of get behind, New Year’s, will be rooooooooned.

Do you know people who pronounce ruined like that? “Rooooooned.” I think Marvin did. The memory is starting to escape me, like Kate Winslet and Jim Carey on the ice that cracks in two during Eternal Sunshine.

IMG_3114.JPGAnyway, Christmas. I let myself open one gift on Xmas Eve, and the fine people of Summer’s Eve ought to consider making special, like, pine and berry feminine products for Christmas, call it Christmas’s Eve.

I’m an idea woman.

The gift, and you can tell already we’re in for a long haul today, was two of my vintage romance magazines from Faithful Reader Paula, who knows what I like. This time they were Christmas themed, like m’douche.

If you didn’t tune in to my last post, I spent Christmas, you know, Eve at my coworker Austin’s, and I got his family a game–it’s just Concentration, but with Eames furniture and designs instead of shitty flowers that you come across on a …summer’s eve.

Oh, June, remove the nozzle and continue.

IMG_3262.JPGThe point is, they sent me this photo. “We’re playing the game you got us, but because we know how you hate this holiday, we’re playing it joylessly.”

I flow into everyone, leaving you refreshed and bitter.

See what I did, there? More feminine humor. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

June, it’s not even Christmas morning yet.


Christmas morning arrived (oh thank GOD) and that damn kitten was a pain in my ass. Before it was even dawn, she started pounce pounce pouncing on the bed, and whose idea was it to foster a goddamn kitten? Finally, after like TWO HOURS of just drifting off again only to POUNCE awake, I threw her into the hall, stuffed a quilt under the door so she couldn’t just slither under the door like she does, and WAS JUST DRIFTING OFF AGAIN when


I knew that ring. Do you ever do that? You know who it is even though it isn’t a special ringtone? You know that ring? It was my mother, of the Obsessed with Christmas mothers, AND I KNEW IT.

“Ima Jon-Benet Ramsey your ass,” I said, Christmas cheerily.

My mother made me stay on the phone with her while I opened my gifts, so I couldn’t photograph my every item like I usually do, and I CAN HEAR YOUR FAKE “I’m so disappointed” groans, all of you, and shut up.

IMG_E3143.jpgIMG_3141.jpgIMG_3140.jpgBut you must trust me. Chaos ensued. It was like having real children there. And do you like my method? I used the laundry basket to hold all the wrapping paper and other stuff that could be recycled. At the end of the festivities (“festivities”), I just dumped the laundry basket in the recycle bin outside.

Home Hacks from Hune. Maybe I should change my name to Hune and start a whole homemaking blog. Hone Your Home With Hune.

I had cat litter on the lapel of my robe this morning. So I think it’s a given that you all want my home hacks.

IMG_E3161.JPGI believe I said to you all the other day that this back room where I write is a cold room, much like my heart at Xmas, and that I really needed socks. So I went on Amazon, through my own link, and got me three or four pair of fuzzy, slouchy socks.

IMG_3156.JPGThen guess what everyone sent me for Christmas.

IMG_E3163.JPG(This seems as good a time as any to remind people that sentences that start with “Guess what” or “I wonder” do NOT NEED A QUESTION MARK AT THE END. They are STATEMENTS. A statement is a declarative sentence, such as, “Hune has a stick up her ass.”)

IMG_3165.jpgAnyway, I got up yesterday and walked around with cold feet and didn’t marry anyone, till I remembered, “Hey, Hune’s got socks comin’ out her …hass!” So I got me some socks on. I rocked out with my socks out.

IMG_E3167.JPGIt wouldn’t be the most…wonderful time of the year without me putting a ribbon or bow on a pet, and this would be an excellent time for me to offer a retrospective of all the years of pets with bows, but I have to get to work, needy.

IMG_3169.JPGIMG_E3168.JPGThe point is, this year Edsel got Hune’s Holiday Humiliation, Now With Claws!

As I pen this, Steely Dan and Jodie Foster have been stampeding around the house as they do, and just now I heard the broom in the laundry room topple over, followed by two very different-sized, ears-back cats dashing out of there.

I wonder what happened. See? That was a statement. You do not need to write, “I wonder what happened?” It’s not a question. You are wondering what happened.

Do you know what I’ve noticed? When people who aren’t, you know, English teachers or editors ponder sentence structure, they say the weirdest stuff, as if they know a rule, a grammar rule, that in fact isn’t anything at all.

“Well, but it’s stating a question, and it’s emphasizing the…”


Grammar isn’t that hard. Punctuation isn’t that hard. And spelling? You can look that up, you know. M-W dot com. I’m on there about 400 times a day.

I know you want to say “object of the preposition” and sound brilliant, but you don’t need to. There are a few really simple rules, and a lot of them are going away, which is what happens with language. If we didn’t let it flow, we’d all still be speaking Olde Englishe. See what I did, there? We’d all be talking like Chaucer.

Anyway, it’s easier than you’re making it, is my point. And what you learned in third grade, there, Menopause, is not a hard-and-fast rule that is still definitely right.

June. It’s like not NOON yet on December 25. We have to get to work.

IMG_E3180.JPGMy favorite gift was one I picked out myself but forgot I picked out. My mother and I saw this at that little boutique we went to the day after Thanksgiving, but then we ran into my cousin Katie and my Aunt Kathy, who once again is not that woman drinking at the top of my blog, and anyway I was so excited that I



I wanted that mailbox. Am small child.

IMG_3181.JPGAnyway, after I opened my gifts, I went outside and screwed a mailbox.

Here is the next Clinique color in our Chune Checks out Chubby Sticks Even on Christmas project…

IMG_3194.jpgIt’s some kind of way-too-orange color, which I cannot find in the bowels of my purse to tell you what the color is called, but I think we can all agree it’s not a keeper for anyone, unless you are Doris Day.

You’ll note, however, that I’m in the car, here, and that is because I was headed to Chris and Lilly’s to have dinner with them, because they felt sorry for Old Lady June having–

Geeez. Steely Dan is kicking that kitten’s ASS right now, and they break it up too fast for me to take a photo, but just now he was grabbing her whole kitten body and she was saying,


Do not worry about that kitten. For she is an asshole, and also they are deeply in love, and yes, I do already feel bad for him when she goes and no I am not keeping her.



IMG_3198.jpgChris cooked for us, cause it’s his thing, and it was all DELICIOUS. They roasted a chicken, and by “they” I mean Chris. There were vegetables, and he even cooks those so they’re delicious. And also, red velvet cake, a thing that obsessed Z, who I think was totally in it just for cake.

Did you hear there’s red cake, Miss Hune?

At dinner, we discussed our favorite Christmas gift, ever.

For Chris, it was his Easy Bake Oven, which kills me. But really, I had one, too, and they were cool as shit.

For me, for some reason my little greenhouse stands out. It was see-through, shaped just like a greenhouse, and divided into three. It came with seeds, and little tools, and you could watch your seeds’ roots and sprouts and it turned me into the plant expert I am today.

Really, I’m not good at anything, am I?

Then it was Lilly’s turn.

“Well,” she hemmed. “I guess it has to be, um, when I, um, got a pony.”

Chris and I exchanged a glance.

Lilly went on to tell us how her parents did the whole Presentation of the Pony on Christmas morning, and no, it wasn’t sleeping under the tree, which is what I immediately envisioned, but there it was, in the barn, with a banner announcing it was Lilly’s.

“So, yeah, I was that girl. The girl who got a pony, for real, on Christmas.”

And that is when I helped Chris gather a few of his things, and we took the kids and left Lilly there at the table. Forever.

A pony for Christmas.

IMG_3197.jpgAfter dinner and resentment, we headed over to the barn to feed the horses, which you can imagine did not delight me in the slightest. Also there: BARN KITTIES!

I took them all home. I probably should have lead with the fact that two horses live here now. Hey, maybe THEY knocked over the broom.


While Lilly busied herself with horse things, her son G decided the cats did not have enough food. So…

What, is Lily the cat on her way to dinner?

IMG_3215.jpgWe also visited the chickens, and that was the day June was complete.

IMG_3217.jpgAfter, we made a bonfire, and I’m happy to tell you I got a shot of my jowls by the fire. Hune’s howls.

IMG_3219.jpgHave a holly jowly Christmas. We need to take up a collection to fix that shit, y’all. Go. Fund me.

IMG_3221.jpgFor no reason whatsoever other than she is a poor judge of character, Z is a Fan o’June. She is a Junello.

IMG_E3230.jpgAnyway, that sums up Christmas, and what annoys me is Z said about 109 funny things that I was going to repeat to you and I forgot them all like I did my mailbox. Everything just sieves out my brain now, and oh!

At one point this week, I was on the phone to my mother and reported to her that I was streaming Long Island Medium, because that is a really good show and you are wrong. IT IS.

The point is, at the end of the conversation, she said, “Okay, then, go back to watching Long Island Madame.” So that’s where I get it.

Also, THAT would be a really good show.

And that is today’s log for yule.





Because Prosecco

IMG_E3062.JPGHey, June, why so destined for hell?

So Christmastime is here, as the Peanuts would say high-pitchedly, and here’s what I’ve done thus far…

Yesterday, I got this urge to clean the house. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m pregnant and nesting or something miraculous like that. Maybe I’m about to give birth in a manger. The point is, I laundered and dusted and cleaned all fekking afternoon, and there I was, mopping myself into a corner, as I do, when the doorbell rang.

“WOO WOO WOO WOOOO WOOF!” said Edsel, who really has a limited vocabulary.

I literally had no way to get to the door without screwing up the mopping. “Who is it?” I shouted, the way Laverne and Shirley used to while they held their baseball bats.

“It’s Happy,” said Happy, who is a faithful reader and who somehow knows where I live, I forget how. I wish now that’d I’d thought to eat her, as then I could tell you she was my Happy Meal.

“Hang on!” I said, then mince mince minced over the chair and the still-drying floors to the door, which to tell you the truth now that they’re dry don’t really look any different. My wood floors don’t really shine anymore, and hey, Stepford Wife. Nice concerns.

IMG_3074.JPGThe point is, Happy feeds and takes in feral cats, and this one is living in her laundry room at the moment, and she wondered if Ned would want this cat, who looks like NedKitty if NedKitty had dipped her tail in ink.

I SO THINK HE SHOULD. And certainly this personal decision should be mine and not his. Anyway I texted the photo and he hasn’t said either way, which will stun everyone who knows Ned and his lightning-fast decisions.

IMG_E3076.JPGHappy also gave me this jaguar of color, because it reminded her of Steely Dan, and lemme tell you what. Every time I see that thing out the corner of my eye, I think it’s Steely Dan.

IMG_3136.jpgAnd the reason I keep seeing it out the corner of my eye is Dear Happy: I am sorry to tell you that Edsel is obsessed with Jaguar of Color. Obsessed. Like, he slept with it last night. Obsessed. I think you got Edsel a gift, after all.

IMG_3071.jpgAnyway, as the day drew to a close, I left Dickus Americanus, up there, during the .0007 seconds she sleeps a day, and stampeded over to my coworker Austin’s house, as he invited me to a little gathering at his house. Yes, I realize I just told you my coworkers don’t like me, but he resides in the minority. He’s like someone who voted for McGovern or something.

IMG_3083.jpgNot wanting to break our record, I put on my next Chubby Stick color beforehand, in  Mighty Mimosa, which is dumb because mimosas are orange, but I do have to say I enjoy me a mimosa, because getting drunk at breakfast is the way to go.

IMG_3085.jpgI also wore my ridik coursage that Ned’s stepmother gave me years ago, a corsage I adore but that I can’t pin on right, so as soon as I got to Austin’s it fell off and I stuck everyone with m’wayward pins like they were all my voodoo dolls.

IMG_E3088.JPGI like Austin’s friends. This is the guy who also likes old pictures of people he doesn’t know. His wife and I got into a very deep discussion about Highlights Magazine, and she expressed her disdain for The Timbertoes (“I don’t know what they are, and I don’t know what their message is”) and right then I knew, I loved her with all my heart.


Because she’s right. Why are they wooden? Why are they 1800s-looking? WHO THE FUCK ARE THE TIMBERTOES AND WHAT DO THEY WANT WITH US?

“You only ever find Highlights Magazine at the doctor’s,” she pointed out. “And that one Bible Book, which I read once as a kid, not realizing the stories would all have morals,” she said. Then she went on to imitate for me the drawings inside that book, doing a fine imitation of everyone at the crucial moment when they readjust their moral compass, which apparently happens in every story.


“Oh my god, that book is ALWAYS THERE at the doctor’s and I never once picked it up,” I said to her. “It’s like those strawberry candies, where the wrapper looks like a strawberry? I sort of know its there, but I also barely even acknowledge it exists.”

There was another woman at the party who, when I asked how she knew Austin and his wife, told me how she was new to town and desperate to make friends, so after a few perfunctory meetings with Austin’s wife, she one day chased after Austin’s wife’s car with a post card, which she eagerly slammed onto the window.

“It had every possible detail,” Austin’s wife told me. “Her shoe size, her kids’ ages, everything.”

At the end of the night, when I was leaving, that same woman came up to me. “I wanted to slam a post card at you but I don’t have any,” she said, and we exchanged numbers and kissed.

Austin’s party gets hot. The real housewives of Greensboro.

IMG_3096.jpgSpeaking of hot, Austin had a fire on his TV, despite actually having a, you know, fireplace. “This is better than a real fire,” said Austin. “It got 5 stars on Netflix.”

This lead us all to want to see a 1-star fire, which we figured would be one guy trying over and over to light wet wood, and eventually just tossing in and burning a Solo cup.

IMG_3102.jpgAustin’s dog continues to be perhaps unhealthily obsessed with Austin, although she did, oddly, give me the time of day, which is rare.

fuk yuu, laydeee. you fekkin timber tow.

IMG_E3109.jpgI also took time out of my busy schedule to admire Austin’s kitchen wallpaper, as I always do, and I see the Prosecco had set in at this point, because nice focusing. Austin and I spent about 45 minutes discussing the use of typography on said wallpaper, and would we, as a designer and a copy editor, have been okay with those equals signs, and the cursive/all caps fiasco, and the fact that there is clearly an extra space before “drops,” till finally I announced, “We are the two most boring people in the world.”

You really are, June.

This is another friend of Austin’s, who I threatened to put in my blog last night, but I forget why. Because Prosecco. He’s the husband of Post Card Wife.

Anyway, I see I have droned on about Xmas Eve for too long, kind of like my stay at the Prosecco table last night, and I don’t have time to describe Christmas and this has instead become all about Eve, and I would take credit for that joke but really The Poet made that one up, and damn her and her writing awards.

Hey, June, is ensuring good sentence structure part of your job? Because, job. Well done.

IMG_3185I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I will describe my not-at-all-chaotic Christmas with a Kitten, volume 3949294. ‘Tis not my first Xmas with a kitten. Probably won’t be my last. That doesn’t mean it’s never a pain in the Prosecco, though.

Yule see me later.


Have yourself a merry little…

People at work don’t like me.

I know I always joke about it, but people at work really don’t like me. Things have changed.

The teams and how we work, it’s all different, and the once-tight-knit group I was a part of either no longer work there or sit far away, and things have…changed. Which I already said, and hey, June, talk in circles. I wonder why you’re so very not loved.

It’s not my imagination. I’m talking about people are gathered, the hour before the holiday break, and I walk up and suddenly everyone’s phone is compelling and they walk away.

I’m talking weekly references to parties I wasn’t invited to, Instagram photos of happy hours I knew nothing about.

If I didn’t make an effort, I would go the whole day with no one talking to me about anything except, “Can you get this done right now?”

I’m not sure what I did, but at this point it doesn’t matter. Those are the facts, and I just have to muddle through it, keep my head down and do my work, which is why I’m actually there in the first place.

But here’s my problem: I built my social life around that place. When I moved here, I was a married person, and most of what I did was with Marvin. When he left, I started that job within the same month. So, for the last six years my social life was my work people and Ned, mostly.

Now there’s no Ned (although Ned still wants for there to be a Ned), and now suddenly I’m the workplace outcast. It’s probably because I’m older than everyone, or because I’ve been depressed since 2015, when there first was officially Not a Ned®. It’s probably a number of things, but what you can’t do is change anyone other than yourself.

If I knew what I’d done wrong, or even where to begin with who stopped liking me first, I’d ask. But it appears almost universal now, so I just work quietly and try to be pleasant.

Every year at Christmastime, I get blue. I hate this fucking holiday. If I could leave all of December and hang out in Tahiti, I would.

The good thing was, every year the Christmas stuff at work was pretty much the most celebrating I’d do, from the big work party to our team events. Those were fun. I was having fun with my friends.

When I was on the floor I worked on for five Christmases, right when it was time to leave for the holiday, I had a little tradition, just with myself.

I’d stand in the kitchen and look at the treats and the gifts (that’s another thing–just one person gave me a little gift this year. I saw little gifts on other desks, but not mine. And I thought of making little gifts myself, but didn’t want to hand one to someone who doesn’t like me) and give a small thanks to the universe for presenting me with such a great place to work during a time that I needed people. Every year, in the dimming light of the late-December afternoon, with everyone else bustling off to their families, I said thank you for making those people my family.

As I left yesterday without saying much to anyone, there was just one guy still working on my old floor. He’s married to another person at work, and I like them both very much, and they seem to still actually like me. They were the only two people to come to the happy hour I tried to have back in October.

“Merry Christmas,” I said to him as I left.

“I hope you’re going to have a good holiday,” he said, looking up from his work. “I remember how sad you were this past Valentine’s Day.”

I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten how sad I felt, having zero Valentine for the second year in a row.

After work, I headed to the grocery store, and as I pulled up, I remembered that I’d spent 4th of July here this past year. I had nothing to do, and ended up watching the fireworks with the employees. We had a perfect view, with the vast sky looming over the parking lot.

It’s been a lonely fucking two years. Things are not going the way I thought they would. I thought by now I’d have met someone new. I thought I’d still be lucky enough to consider my coworkers family. I never in a million years thought I’d be alone at 52.

And I realize it must be my fault, some flaw in my character. Probably because my beauty and raw talent and animal sex appeal repel people. It’s probably m’boobs.

And maybe next year at this time, things will have turned around. But I thought that last year. And I thought it at Christmas of 2015. So maybe I’ll be exactly here again next year, and I have to find a way to be okay with that. I try to think about people who have it so much worse than me, people whose problems crush a lonely old lady’s.

If you’re one of them, if you’re one of the people whose Christmas is going to suck, one of the people whose life sucks right now, please know there is a person who is with you on that. Who’s muddling through this goddamn holiday, and this goddamn life, as best she can.

You are not alone.

Merry Christmas.