I just figured out that if I positively rush through the various animal care steps in the morning I can be at my laptop blogging 18 minutes later. That’s only if I rush rush rush fly by night away from here and refuse to enjoy the moment. Moment schmoment. Sunrise schmunrise. The first person to ever s-c-h words to be funny must be rich and resting on his laurels right now. His schlaurels.

I once heard that the person who invented making a little indentation in your ice is resting on his laurels and rich now. Can you imagine? One small invention and woot, there it is. Riches. I really shoulda tried to take off with my Lean Cuisine vending machine idea back in the day. Back when women were all low-fat this and sodium schmodium that and schlepping Lean Cuisines to work. It was gonna heat up, see, and not just plop your icy Lean Cusine at you.

Hey, so what’s new? I mean, other than our president having coronavirus and all. It’s rather hard to seem interesting when the world is exploding all around us. I’m over here all, “I binged 14 episodes of Gilmore Girls this weekend! Yes, again!”

I went back to that trail and took another picture, but as you can see, we are not at the “exploding with color” phase yet. Leaves really are changing here, though. On the way to that trail, I pass my old neighborhood and I sort of forgot that as you come to my road, there is a canopy of trees that is so pretty this time of year. All yellow and orange and red all over and so on. In the spring that same canopy of trees is all blossoms all the time.

When did I get old and start noticing tree canopies?

Also too this weekend, in my hard-hitting weekend of crowds and parties, I decided on what colors Faithful Reader Kris will be using for my new afghan.

When did I get old and start getting excited about yarn colors?

In case you weren’t here last week, because you were off living your hard-hitting life of crowds and parties (this all felt a lot better when everyone was home, and not just the few paranoid), Faithful Reader Kris is making me another afghan. She made me one when I lived at my old house. You know, the one with a canopy of trees? My house, fmr.? Anyway, the afghan had blues and pinks and it perfectly matched my old living room. Now she’s making me one to match the living room, crnt. If you wanna call this living.

She sent me a page of yarn bits, and this is the first time I’ve ever gotten a page of yarn bits.

And this is the living room I’m tryina match. Ultimately, I selected Dusty Lilac, Rosé and Lincoln. Then she wrote me back and said, “We should maybe also add bluhhh and blee dee leee leee” and I said sure. Further reports as developments warrant.

I also took Blackie Spooky Midnight to the vet, for his booster shots, because apparently he’s in the Booster Club or something. Yes he IS getting rather big. I’ve had him for more than a month now. They grow when they’re kittens, you know.

His shot wore him out, but then the next day he was back to embracing life.

In the past few years, I’ve had two other man kittens: Steely Dan and Milhous. Both of them were aggressively kitten-ish, meaning they spent the whole first year of their lives just looking for ways to be awful. Forest is less so. He’s really just a sweet cat. He’s playful but not OH MY GOD CALM DOWN playful.

Again. What would make you say, “Ima dump this kitten”? WHAT?

Randolph Mantooth is an excellent cat name.

Anyway, that about sums up the wknd. Do you like how I’m so pressed for time that I have to abbreviate the word? I have that long commute ahead of m–oh, look I’m here!

Back when I lived in LA I’d have DIED for this lack of commute. There was nothing that obsessed me more than my long, awful commute every day. It was 16 miles each way and that took an hour. I tried every back road you could think of to get to work and it didn’t matter because every other yahoo in LA was tryina do the same thing. It was terrible.

From my window at work, I could see the freeway and I’d watch it get slower and slower as it got close to 5:00. And at the time, at that job, if there was no work for me, I could just go. But there was this


who sat in the front office whose job it was to give me work, if it came in. She’s the one who said I was selfish for not having kids. She had seven, two of whom she had to keep the man who left her, so we see how that turned out.

Anyway, she’d be at that front desk doing her makeup and gossiping with the others out there and I could SEE the trays of work that I had to proofread. “Hey, why don’t I take these now and give them back to you?” I’d ask, while I sat there WAITING FOR WORK.

“Oh, no. I have to check these in first,” she’d say, turning from them and ignoring them again.

I was not a fan of her.

She and the whole front desk area got in trouble for discussing the “funky spunk” episode of Sex and the City at the tops of their lungs. Believe it or not the person to turn them in was a young guy.


She was also the person who used to leave message for clients saying, “I’m just calling to alarm you of your appointment next week at 10.” I finally could not stand it a moment longer and had to go out there and tell her the difference between “alert” and “alarm.” They all acted like I was some sort of nerd egghead for having basic knowledge like this.

I lasted at that job two and a half years. How?

Anyway I’d better go. I have to commute to work, as my start time is in two minutes. I’d better get in the c–oh, look, here I am.

I need to get over that.

Ten (yes, I WILL run down the beach in my cornrows now)

I have two things to tell you today: about the dog and about the thread. I guess it’s yarn, not thread. I have a yarn for you.

First of all, today is my 10-year anniversary with Edsel.

I’ll tell you the story, like most of you weren’t here when it happened. Like you don’t know this story and aren’t about to expire from boredom.

Ten years ago today, I was married. I lived in a different house and worked for a different place (an ad agency in Winston) and I didn’t even know Ned existed. It seems so weird. My life was completely different then. I had no Iris or Lily or the two recent add-on bonus cats. In the cat department I had Henry and Winston and Francis.

I also had Tallulah. Alive Tallulah, fmr. Oh, how I loved my Lu.

Ten years ago, Tallulah was two years old and she was my first dog. I was super into having a dog and did everything Cesar said to do except be the pack leader. Talu was pack leader from day one.

I took her to dog daycare every day. When we got home after work, I drove her to this park, where we took a long, long walk that ended in the dog park. Sometimes I’d let her play there for two hours because I was friendly with all the other dog parkers and we’d chat while our dogs ran all over yonder.

Then Lu and I’d walk the long, long walk back to the car. We’d get home and get something to eat and I’d turn on the TV and Lu would stare at me and go, “Mmmmph.”



She was NOT DONE. She was bored.

Oh my god.

So I decided she needed a dog friend. Basically I got Edsel to entertain my other dog because I was too lazy to do it myself.

“We need a puppy,” I said to Marvin, spouse, fmr. These really have been a changey 10 years, man.

“No,” said Marvin, spouse, fmr.

Everything I ever wanted, Marvin’s first response was no. Do you have any idea how depressing that is, to live with the forever no like that? Trust me. It is.

“We should try this new mustard.”


It was a reflex with him, I swear.

Anyway, sometimes I could get him to yes, and in this case I did after months of trying, by reaching a compromise: He could get an old car if I could get a new puppy.

So I started looking on Petfinder and he started looking on Carfinder. I don’t even know if that’s a site, but it probably is. I’d confer with him on which puppies looked appealing and I’d apply for the ones we agreed on. We had three or four applications in when I saw Montana. You’ve no idea how I wish I’d have screenshot the profile pic from Montana’s Petfinder ad.

Because Montana was goofy-looking. Montana, in his date-me profile pic, was slung over the shoulder of his foster mom, ears like — well, I can’t even compare it to anything. You know that image where Jesus is knocking on the high rise? That’s the only thing I can think of when I think of Edsel’s puppy ears.

He was ear-y, if you’re picking up what I’m throwing down.

On Saturday, October 2, 2010, Marvin and I were headed out to buy a new couch. I don’t remember what was wrong with our old—oh, yes, I do. We had had a cat, Ruby DeLuna, a fluffy black cat, who got depressed and peed all over our old couch, repeatedly. Poor Ruby.

Anyway, that’s why the new couch. But as we were headed there, I got an email saying I had been approved to adopt Montana and did I want him. Who wouldn’t want to adopt a whole state? “We got approved for a puppy!!!” I squealed to Marvin, who I think mostly didn’t want a puppy and ended up living with said puppy for less than a year before he left. I don’t think that’s why he left. He probably asked himself, “Do I want to be married? Answer: no.”

So anyway I got a new couch 10 years ago today, as well.

One idea that’s good is a new couch and a puppy all at once.

After our success at Rooms to Go, we made arrangements to meet the puppy that evening in Mt. Airy, where Montana resided. You know, if there’s any state this dog is not, it’s rugged, no nonsense Montana. He’s maybe Connecticut or some other effete state. He’s Florida. Long and full of goofiness.

We were headed out the door to drive to Mt. Airy when the phone rang. This is back when you had, you know, a phone at your house that actually rang with real callers.

“Yes, this is Whoo deee Blee Golden rescue. You’ve been approved for a Golden retriever puppy!”

I mean, my purse was in my hand. I was ready to go. “Oh, no, thank you,” I said to the Golden retriever lady, whom I now picture with very wavy ears. “I’m headed out the door right now to get an Edsel.”

I think about that sometimes. How would life be different if I’d said, “Screw Montana! Get me a Golden!” Would I have become basic? I mean, even more basic than someone who gets a couch from Rooms to Go?

Anyway I didn’t and this is the path I chose. The Edsel path.

We drove to Mt. Airy to a gas station and watched the sun set behind the mountain while the deliverers of Edsel/Montana were late. I think at the time I thought all pet exchanges on Petfinder were legit, but in retrospect the whole thing seems shady. Did I rescue Eds or buy him? I don’t know.

Anyway, show up they did, eventually. Eds was riding on the lap of an old lady, which was prescient. Marvin handed over the $90 “rehoming fee” and I thanked them. “Oh, no, thank you,” said the lady driving. “We weren’t sure anyone would take this homely puppy.”

(Here is what I wore 10 years ago today, and I always liked that outfit. Those pants were pink.)

He really was sort of goofy-looking. But that’s what drew me to him. I thought he was cute!

On the drive back, Eds snuggled into my hair. He’s always been quieter in the car. We’d been planning to name him Sputnik, which I still think is a good dog name, when I said to Marvin, “What do you think of Edsel? It’s the car nobody wanted.”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Marvin said, and by the way we had a lot of struggle naming pets together, usually. Brace yourself, but usually every name I suggested he said no. He said no to naming Winston Chairman Mao. He said no to naming Tallulah Lulabelle.

In retrospect, he was right on both of those.

Anyway, we brought him home and Tallulah barked but after five minutes she settled into a quiet resentment of Eds that she carried with her to her dying day. She literally died to the sounds of Edsel barking.

The moment we brought Edsel home, Talu became dignified. The day before she’d been a puppy. On October 2, 2010, she became Talu, dignity dog.

God, how did I stand that yard all those years? As I write this, poor Victor my beleaguered lawn guy, is aerating my lawn.

Anyway, that is the story of how I got an Edsel 10 years ago today. And while a Golden retriever probably would have been lovely and perfect, would it have been as interesting as Edsel? Would it have loved me the way Edsel does?

Would a stupid perfect Golden retriever know half of what I’m saying to him? Would he be lying here staring at me as we speak, the way New Hampshire/Montana/Sputnik/Edsel is? Would he flap his tail against his bed every morning when I greet him from my own bed?

Probably. But he wouldn’t have been my Edsel. The Edsel we’ve all come to know and love.

Happy 10th anniversary, Edsel.

P.S. I guess I droned on about my big-eared dog (and didn’t even get to his underbite) and never mentioned the yarn, but that gives you something to look forward to. If you’re on (Face)Book of June I will talk about it there, how’s that?

The one where June loses her train of thought. I never really have TRAINS of thought. More like ant farms of thought.

Do you know what I’ve never done? Actually, that question encompasses many answers. I’ve never gone a morning without coffee since 9th grade. That’s one thing. Unless I was having surgery or a lab test, and believe you me, it pisses me off when that happens. I remember years ago having one of my fibroid outpatient surgeries (I guess most of that fibroid drama was before your time. Count yourselves lucky) that didn’t start till 1 p.m., and I complained so much that when I came to, they had fresh black coffee waiting for me, and I’ve never been so grateful for a gesture.

I’ve also never skied. No desire to. You will never hear me say, “I can’t blog today because I have to slalom down some hills.” I don’t like to be cold and I don’t like to be dangerous.

Hunting. I’ve never gone hunting. Basically anything outdoors I have not done unless it’s drinking on a patio.

Anything that involves being without caffeine, I have not done. Like, I really want to go to one of those spa resorts, but not one that doesn’t have caffeine. No way. I will bolt outta there. Do you think I might have an addiction?

Also? I cannot remember what my point was going to be, after I listed things I had not done. Ding DANG it. I really can’t. Crap.

It’s October, in case you hadn’t noticed, and for a few weeks now it’s been chilly here. One morning I woke up and went outside and boom, chilly and it’s been so ever since. The weather literally changed overnight. Last year I was thoroughly irritated, which I know is not like me, because all of September and on into October it was 90 degrees each day. It was so hot and horrible. Not this year.

That means this weekend I will have to do some exchanging of the clothes. Move the fall-ish things into the main closet and stick the summer things into one of those suck-the-air-out bags I got after I had an Organize June Day on this very blog. So that’s something to look forward to.

Meanwhile, I have had a migraine every day this week. I think it’s because I am working on something intricate and detailed for work, but I have GOT to get that situation figured out. I either have to figure out how to not get migraines after a long day of intricate work or not do intricate work anymore.

Perhaps I should chuck it all, all these riches, and become a ski instructor.

Honestly, though, I gotta do SOMETHING. I am overdosing on my migraine medication and it isn’t good. I feel like that ballerina in I’m Dancing as Fast as I Can. Remember that book? It was from the ’70s, I think, and it was about some ballet dancer in New York who got hooked on the dolls. Valium? Did she get hooked on Valium? It’s possible I never actually read the book and just saw her on Phil Donahue.

I’m tired of feeling sick all the time, and when I’m not sick, I’m on tenterhooks waiting for it to return. I wonder if I should do something less intense than staring hard at words all day. It might not be good. Maybe I could be president!

“The president is playing miniature golf today. This is her 46th miniature golf outing since her presidency began, and she is determined to get the ball through the windmill.”

I adore miniature golf. Once Marvin and I found this miniature golf place that time forgot, somewhere in, like, Glendale or something, when we lived in LA. It had an old restaurant attached to it, that time also forgot. The whole thing was very 1950s restaurant where Danny and Sandy hung out in Grease. What was that place called? The Tasty-something?

Anyway we adored it and got to go there two or three times before guess what? Closed down. It’s probably a Staples now.

I’d better go. I have to begin work in a few minutes and my goal is to not have a headache at 5:00. Further reports as developments warrant (FRaDW).


That’s only funny if you read me the other day, when I talked about Seth and Sevin and Sim.



Every once in awhile I’ll make a decision that’s even dumber than the 1984 “I’m going to not only buy but also wear the shit out of these striped Espirit pants” decision. And that dumb decision came last night, when I said, “I’m going to leave the door open so the cats can sleep here if they so choose.”

They so chose.

Good GRAVY that was a ridiculous evening. Why do we have so many cats? I had nowhere to put my feet. I was like Princess Diana at those land mines.

Anyway, I survived it, and now my capri khakis and I are going to get into the car with Dodi Al Fayed.

But that story is not why I gathered you here today, although knowing me I could have made a whole post about how dumb it is to sleep with 86 cats. It runs in my family. My Uncle Leo was a teacher, and my cousins Katie and Maria went to his school. I can’t imagine going to school with a parent but there it is. Anyway, when Katie was in kindergarten, my Uncle Leo walked past Katie’s classroom, where apparently it was her turn to do show and tell but she had failed to bring something to show and then inevitably tell.

“These are my tights,” she began, twisting her leg to and fro. “My tights are white, and they came from…”

She made lemonade, is what she did. She pulled show and tell out of her ass. Probably literally, because remember how uncomfy those tights were? All I can recall is doing that dance where you pull ’em up. Pull, leg leg, pull.

But again, this is not why I called you here. I CALLED you here to tell you I had an actual adventure that involved leaving the house and going to work! I KNOW!

Yesterday I got a task at work, wherein I have something like 100 charts to look at, and I am to compare them to one presentation I had to download, then to another place I had to access online, then also go into a third place and make the changes I find, then also get a Word doc going to tell a person about all the changes I made.

On a laptop.

I don’t know if you HAVE a laptop, but if you do not I will clue you in on something: The screen isn’t big. For an hour I tried toggling back and forth between all the things, but since THREE of the things I was looking at all showed exactly the same information, I just had to make sure we transferred it right, I kept losing track of which document I was proofreading (and this IS proofreading, not copy editing) and which documents I was using for comparison.

I tried getting onto my desktop computer. My phone the other day told me, “You have not used this desktop in 160 days. Do you still want it to be part of the cloud?” And I was all, YES. I do not want my desktop that I paid 11 million dollars for to get offa my cloud. Has it really been that long? Yeesh.

But when I fired my desktop up, it no longer knows the stuff I have going on at work. Formerly, I’d work all day at work and then go home to my desktop—which is mine and not work’s—but somehow the good people at Apple made it so all the junk I was working on at work would be on that computer too. It was so convenient. And now it’s gone.

Finally I realized that to do this job correctly, I was going to have to print out the stuff I was proofreading. And it IS proofreading, did I mention? Sometimes just proofreading is delightfully untaxing. No rewriting, no worrying about how something is laid out. Just, does it match? Ah, it’s like a spa.

It was already 3 p.m. when I made this executive decision, so I just got in the car and went to work. I was wearing a long-sleeve workout shirt, the kind that’s thin cotton but has a hood that you’d never use. I was also wearing black yoga pants, but I wouldn’t call them black, exactly, as they were more fur yoga pants. Oh my god, there was some Edsel on there, and also some Lily. They were like mink pants.

Also it was the longest ride in, ever. I only live six minutes from work, but I hit every light, even those lights you never hit, where they only come on if some yahoo hits the button for the walk/don’t walk thing. One guy hit that and rolllllllllled across the street at the speed of tar, in his wheelchair, and I realize I am a horrible person that I was all, “COME ON” to the guy in a wheelchair, just trying to get his drink on at the Angel Convenience Store that I never ever go to as it looks unsanitary. Everyone here in this hood just thrives on that Angel Convenience Store. I feel like it must get robbed on the reg. I’d BE an angel if I went in there.

What are you called when you’re dead but in hell? You aren’t an angel. What would you be?

Oh my god, anyway. I’ve talked 8 hours and haven’t even gotten to work yet.

So finally I pulled in and my parking area, fmr., that was always full and you were lucky to find a spot in there, had two other cars parked in it. I walked in and there are still “social distance” signs up from those heady days of early March that I wasn’t part of since I was home recovering from surgery. Did you know I had surgery?

The lights were off, but I could see way down–I work in an old mill so it’s just a huge room–that someone was there, in accounting. I thought of saying hello but remembered my fur yoga pants.

I got to my desk, where the calendars still read February, and noted a line of ants on my desk, ants I promptly and gleefully murdered. Then I turned on my computer with my smile and I need to get over that line and discovered?

Printer was out of toner.

HOW? No one’s BEEN there since 1842, unless that guy in accounting is printing off mathlete competition invites or something. I called IT, who have been coming in every day. They’re on another floor.

“Go downstairs to the Garden Level and try the printer there,” said IT. “I’ll hook you up to that printer from here.”

Computers are a miracle.

“Griff has a whoo de blackerdle,” said the IT guy, so I sat at Griff’s desk and hooked my laptop up to Griff’s blackerdle, and Dear Griff: I am probably having your child now.

It worked, and next thing you know I could hear the printer on the Garden Level (I worked down there for years. Garden Level is a euphemism for basement.) whirring out my pages. There were a TON and I had to open each chart and print it individually. It took forever, so I had plenty of time to observe Griff’s desk and note that he’s filled out a subscription card to Golf Digest.

Anyway, once I printed everything, I got to the printer, and?

Found some stuff that belonged to the owner of the company. I mean, they weren’t state secrets or anything, but I think they probably just got sent to the wrong printer and there they were for everyone to look at.

And that is how I ended up on the pretty floor at work, the floor with all the exposed brick and giant old-mill windows, delivering papers to THE OWNER OF OUR COMPANY, praying to god and all the Angel Convenience Stores that she would not be there BECAUSE CAT YOGA PANTS OH MY GOD.

As I walked the long walk down the pretty floor and to the owner’s office, I kept sort of pulling at my pants like they were my cousin’s tights. I was hoping some of the fur would fall off as I pulled, kind of like Pigpen when he has that cloud behind him when he walks. “Why couldn’t you have just PULLED ON SOME JEANS before you left?” I admonished self.

The owner of our company is impeccable. She has never, in nearly 10 years of my knowing her, looked anything less than perfection. Even when I’ve run into her outside of work. Perfection.

I won’t keep you in suspense a moment longer: She wasn’t there. And I likely left a trail of dander that I hope will not kill some allergic coworker when they do return to the office.

Anyway, I’d better go proofread some charts. I don’t know if I mentioned I have a lot of charts to look at today. Also I own some cats. Did I mention that?


The one where June realizes the best part of life is the thinner slice and also TIME! (tick, tick, tick) TIME!

When I was in 9th grade, two friends of Saul Dietzel (and those who know me in real life are going to be SO IMPRESSED by the way I changed that name to protect the innocent) came up to me in the hall.

“Saul wants to know if you’ll go with him,” they said. With a romantic and intimate invitation like that, what girl could resist?” As an aside, which is not like me, after you’re done with school there’s very little drama in halls after. For the first 18 years of your life, a lot happens in halls and after that not so much, unless you work for Halls cough drops or something. Are the Halls of medicine even a thing anymore?

Back to our story.

“OK,” I said, and that is how that great romance was born. And borne. The entire relationship consisted of us walking around together during the free period after lunch. There were a few awkward phone calls, where my biggest fear was silence, so I think I may have done my nervous talking thing.

I recall this torrid romance took place over Valentine’s Day, and I was careful to pick out a card that said I like you but not You are my great love. The next day, during the exciting and unusual ritual of walking around outside after lunch, he received said card and responded with, “Oh, man, I got you roses but I left them in my mom’s car when she dropped me off.”

The fact that he did not present me with them the next day leaves me wondering if in fact that was true. Signs point to no.

I’ve no idea how it all ended but it lasted only a few weeks. I was a swinging single again once it was warm, which because it was Michigan means it must have been around May. My friend Seth Polisky (once again, friends in real life are going to tell me I should disguise names for a living) introduced me to her boyfriend’s friend. Both boys went to another school, in a smaller town called Bridgeport, and we hoity-toity Saginaw kids looked down on Bridgeport kids, because they didn’t live in a bustling metropolis such as Saginaw, as we did. But despite this, sometimes it was exciting to branch out and get some strange from other area boys. Boys you hadn’t dissected a worm with.

So the setup was, you know, set up. We received them in Seth’s basement, the official receiving area of teenagers across Michigan. Everyone in Michigan has a basement and most everyone has “finished” the basement, meaning it has become carpeted and couched and often a wet bar is involved. It’s nice that your parents give you a comfy spot to get felt up for the first time.

Anyway, Seth’s boyfriend came down first. He was a total Aryan youth-looking dude. White-blond hair, deep-blue eyes. Cheekbones. Seth was very pretty, despite being named Seth, which she wasn’t, so this all made sense that her boyfriend was traditionally handsome, like a mannequin or any of Mary Richards’ dates.

I had this … hair, so where Seth was a 9, I was lucky if I was encroaching a bushy-haired 7. I feared what sort of circus freak she’d fix me up with.

“Come on down, Sevin,” she said to what was to become my next boyfriend, and at this point I’m so delighted with my name disguises that Ima award myself some kind of srize.

Instead of merely walking down the stairs, however, my soon-to-be boyfriend pretended to fall down the stairs for his big entrance. It was hilarious and had already sealed the deal for me, but later in the evening when Seth and her boyfriend Sim were making out, leaving Sevin and me desperately trying to keep conversation alive, Sevin reached for the pack of cards lying on the table.

People are forever playing cards in Michigan. Here all the women play bridge, but in Michigan everyone was always playing Euchre, a game I never learned, and I feel like I should not even be an honorary Michigander. I tried to learn but also I was always drunk whenever I tried to learn and is there anything harder than trying to learn a card game, anyway?

“OK, see, this here is your left bauer.”


Anyway, Sevin began scratching his arm. “Oh, no, not again. I’ve had this problem that comes and goes, I — ” he scratched his arm furiously. “I have the 7 of Clubs itch.” And out fell the 7 of Clubs he’d shoved up his sleeve.

We dated for four months, which in 9th-grade time is like 50 years.

Careful readers will note the time I typed you excerpts from my hard-hitting and thoughtful high school diary, where on the day before my first day of 10th grade I wrote, “If Kevin dumps me, I will die” and then I got to school the next day, saw all the boys there, came home and dumped him. Also, careful readers may note his carefully disguised name is now blown.

I’m telling you all this and did not mean to get into so much detail but you know how I am, because then in December I fell in love for the first time, with Giovanni Leftwich, my high school boyfriend I’ve told you about 97 times.

And the reason I’m telling you all this is because this weekend it dawned on me:

That time from Saul Dietzel to Giovanni Leftwich was 10 months. That’s all it was! Ten months! It felt like three years, at least. I’ve practically been on this lockdown for 10 months! I started in February, before the word plague was even a thought you had. Ten months is nothing! It’s a blip!

Why is that? Why does time move so slowly when you’re young and so fast when you’re old? I mean really, why? I’m not just making conversation because Seth and the Aryan are making out in the finished basement. Really. Why? It’s so weird.

And that sums up my thoughts on that matter. There must be some sort of logical explanation, and as we all know, I live and die by logic.

I leave you with an exciting visual. Last Sunday I took a walk on this trail and it was pleasant so I decided to take the same walk yesterday. I noted that the leaves were just starting to change color and it was noticeable from last week to this, so here’s what I decided.

I’ve decided I’ll go back to my trail every week and take a photo of this same spot so we can watch the fall progression. Exciting, right?! I realize the best part of life is the thinner slice and dear June stop saying that but also that there aren’t many hopey changey leaves showing in THIS shot but look:

Here’s another foe toe I took yesterday and you can see leaves are JUST STARTING to change. I wasn’t making it up.

Of course, there’s the part where we assume I’m going to be able to find that spot on the trail again, which is a bunch of anonymous trees on a long path, but whatever. I should have left some sort of Hansel and Gretel trail. I’m sorry. Some sort of Sansel and Sretel trail.

I guess I can always return to this water and take a picture, or rather a foe toe and dear June STOP, right there. That at least will be easy enough to find.

I have to go. I have to go to work and then next thing you know 10 months will have passed and I guarantee you there won’t be three boyfriends who will have come and gone in that time like there were in much-faster 1980.


I detest the phrase “happy place”

We are having “heavy rains” today—that’s how my Google Machine described it. So I’m sitting in the dark typing you even though the sun has been up for awhile. The “sun.” It’s allegedly here. Like Norm’s wife on Cheers.

Anyway, I wish I had anything to tell you. My days pretty much go like this: Get up, feed 200 pets, work and then work and work also, then trainer or financial advisor (I’ve been seeing one about my retirement, which is doable in a mere 15 years, so celllll-a-brate good times, come on!) then feed 200 pets and then lie about listlessly then bed. The End.

That pretty much sums up the last six months, other than the financial advisor, who is new.

It’s hard to blog during a pandemic.

And speaking of which, could you fucking comment? It’s really not easy to sludge self up for another day that looks like the one before and get on here and try to be interesting when you never leave the house and after all that, know that 39 people out of 1,500 said something.


Speaking of blogging, last weekend I got curious about someone I used to follow back when everyone had blogs. She had a very cute visual blog and we shared the same taste in everything from bed linens to plates (in other words, she liked old cute shit too) and I just loved looking at her stuff. Her husband was hot, too. See? Same taste.

They adopted a baby and the worst thing happened: There was some sort of window for the birth mother to change her mind, and she did. So after a few days of just rapturous posts about her new baby, that new baby was gone. God, it was horrible.

Anyway, that musta been about the time I got divorced and started dating. Remember when I used to date? Because I got distracted and lost touch with her. I knew she’d successfully adopted another child and that was good.

So I checked in on her this weekend and not only does she still blog like I do, as apparently we have the same taste in doing something that was hot in 2009, she still has the same taste as me in general (still likes the shit your grandma liked in 1954) and her daughter is an actual fully formed person at this point, clocking in at 3 to 12 years old.

That was a relief.

Do you ever check in on people you used to follow? I sometimes wonder if anyone does that with me. “Who was that person I used to read? Bye Bye Cake? Hooray for Pie? What was it?” Then they go over to the old blog and eventually find me over here. And they say, Oh, she’s become a bitter old cat lady. OK!

Anyway, I have to go. I have already worked 40 hours this week but I have quite a day ahead of me, as the person sending me work said, “I have stuff to send you Friday but I don’t see how you’re gonna get it all done.”

I’ll catch you after my exciting weekend of crowds and lots of close contact with strangers.

From her happy place,

Room Two-Twenty-Hi, June

Well. I got up, made coffee, and now I sound like the Beatles. Dragged a comb across my head. Which isn’t true because if I did that I’d be doing my Bernie from Room 222 impresh. Won’t you chortle at my relatable reference?

I fed everyone and then watched all and sundry eat each other’s food. I have given up at this point. They alllll want the forbidden food. The bad boys of food. Although I don’t know how $99 special stomach food can even count as a “bad boy.” Milhous, the world’s finickiest cat since birth, only likes that stuff. It’s what he lives for.

God knows I’ve tried. I’ve bought him every kind of food, from highbrow to lowbrow. From organic moose ground with a catnip pestle to rat whiskers off the factory floor. And nothing tickled his fancy like Iris’s you-have-pancreatitis prescription kibble. So.

Welcome to my blog, where I spend inordinate amounts of time telling you the minutia of my pets. Come in! Have a cat-furred seat! I’ll just drag a comb across my head.

I didn’t plan to become this person. This cat person who is writing you about cats with a cat on her wrist.

It just evolved.

Forest looks so grown up in that photo, but sometimes I think the camera doesn’t capture all his fluff so he looks older. In truth he’s something of a pipsqueak. He’s already six months old and only weighs 5 pounds However, I dewormed his ass, literally, and I weighed him this week and he’s gained half a pound already, so. I’ve also seen him hit the vending machine a LOT.

What would be in a cat vending machine? Mice. Moths. Yarn. Empty boxes.

Anyway, talking endlessly about cats is not why I’ve gathered you here. I need help with my bucket list.

First of all, I abhor the phrase bucket list, so there’s that. Second of all when they updated my work computer they made it so emails FLOAT across my screen, which I hate. It’s not start time yet and still, whilst I write you,

“Hi, JUNE!!”

“Hey, June!”

“Work, June, work!”

No matter how long I work at night, I can’t get ahead. I keep thinking, if I just work really late this one night I’ll be caught up. And then in the morning there is a cacophony of Hi, June emails.

I used to work with someone who would send me work on our chat feature, which is fine, but she’d always just start off, “Hi, June.” The emails that float across my screen only show me the first few words, that inevitably start with a greeting, but I promise you when I open them AT 8:30 AND NOT ONE MOMENT SOONER, they will have actual detail in them. The job at hand. Where I can access it. The job code. The due date.

But THIS person would just message me. “Hi, June.”

I cannot tell you how that irked me.

WHAT? WHAT WHAT WHAAAAAT? Just give me the work. You know I have to do it so just send it to me. I do not wish to be all, “Hi, Plinda. What’s up? Yeah, it was good. Not long enough! Hahahaha! I need a vacation from my vacation. Hahahaha!”

Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I’m too nice. No. Maybe I’m not good at that bullshitty small talk you’re supposed to do in an office. I’m more tell-you-about-my-yeast-infection-in-the-breakroom.

I’m authentic. Isn’t that the buzzword now? Except I actually am.

Anyway, my list of things to do before I expire. My bucket-of-chicken list.

I was thinking I don’t have one, and since there’s a plague on I thought I should get one. My bucket list (ugh) used to be to own real perfume, but Marvin’s very sweet aunt sent me real perfume in 2008, so that’s done.

When you aren’t athletic it makes life harder to categorize. My hobbies aren’t volleyball and jousting. I don’t enjoy soccer matches and wrestling. One is sort of at a loss when one is indifferent to athleticism. So doing something sports-related isn’t on there.

Also I’m not big on travel. Makes me anxious.

However, one thing on my list would be to see the Northern Lights. I saw them once, believe it or not, driving from my college town to my hometown, one late-fall night, if I recall. I took the country road way so it was dark and I pulled over. I was alone and there weren’t smartphones, so it was just me and my memory recording it. I didn’t know you could even see the Northern Lights in Michigan, but I did.

Anyway I’d like to see them again.

And maybe kiss a leopard. But I’m not sure that’s actually possible. Might be the end of m’lips.

So, you know me. What’s something I should add? What’s something I might like? What about a fro like Bernie from Room 222?

I have to go. It’s three minutes to “Hi, June” acknowledgment.


How was the prom, Carrie?

Dear Faithful Reader Paula:

You will be relieved to hear that it’s 7:40 a.m., meaning I have 50 entire minutes to write you, which is a lot. I’ve fed and peed the Edsel, changed the litter, fed Forest his kitten food that he doesn’t care about, lifted fat Lily to the feeder—which always feels ironic—and given Iris her special stomach food that Milhous will eat as soon as her gray back is turned. Basically, everyone here has their own food and everyone eats everyone else’s food, with the exception of Iris who just gets her food eaten.

Whose idea was it to have this many pets? [looks around accusingly]

So now I’m all ready to begin blogging like it’s 2009 and someone outside is TAPPING something. At 7:42 a.m.! Hang on, I HAVE to see what kind of insensitive ARSE is TAPPING at this hour.

…It’s a guy across the street. It’s only 46 degrees this morning, so he’s out there in a coat and beanie, doing some sort of car repair. This couldn’t wait till 9? Really?

Anyway, hi. I’m alive! I’m like when Carrie pops back out from under the dirt. Carrie at the prom, not Carrie Bradshaw.

All week last week I was either sick or working or sometimes both at once. I had a migraine that stretched days—days!!—and I had a busy workweek too. Today I turned on this laptop with my smile and bee-boo! bee-boo! bee-boo! Eight messages as soon as I opened this computer up, all of them NEW work already for this week. The poor guy who sent them sent them at 11:02 last night, so it sounds like he had a restful weekend.

As for me, that migraine started late last Saturday night/early Sunday morning and didn’t officially stop till Thursday, so I decided I was gonna live this weekend and not work at all, and what kind of society do we live in where deciding not to work on the weekend is an actual decision you have to make? I need to move to Sweden or something, where it’s chill. Literally. I’ll bet I’d stop saying things like “only 46 degrees.”

So here are all the many adventures of Juan, the weekend of September something to something, 2020.

On Friday, I went to actual work but not to work. I took a walk with my old friend Austin, with whom I have now worked for like 7 years or something. I would accuse you all of courgaring him but does a man in his 40s count as cougaring? I don’t know. Anyway we took a walk on our old greenway we used to walk on every day back when there wasn’t a plague. We brought masks but ended up just staying six feet apart. The best part is he had to wear his wife’s sunglasses because he forgot his.

Also, we saw a heron. Isn’t it odd how magenta circles sometimes appear in the wild?

Later, I got on the phone with yet another coworker, fmr. When the pandemic happened, we lost some coworkers and he was one of them, sadly. I always liked that guy. I told people if anyone lost their job due to coronavirus that I’d copy edit their resume, but this guy had not only a resume but a whole portfolio that is clever and hilarious, so we got on the phone and he fixed each page while I read through it. It was actually more fun than it sounds and I saw some stuff I’d helped write so I added it to my OWN portfolio.

On Saturday I had my trainer then did some cleaning and my many beasts helped just like on Snow White. Alternatively, they did this. ^^^

But really. But seriously, folks, a whole week of migraine left the house in what you might call a condition. Pants on the floor, dishes undone, wrappers strewn about like a day after a party at Cardi B’s. That would be rappers, wouldn’t it, not wrappers. Dammit.

Anyway things needed sprucing. And then after that, Eds and I took a drive.

The best part was when he headed to the bakery and got a curbside pupcake, as one does.

Then that night, I had a wedding.

One of my coworkers used to live here but transferred to the New York office and there he met a woman who is lovely and he married her on Saturday. They got married in a Brooklyn bookstore, and all of us, everyone, Zoomed into the wedding. It was really cool because I could see the whole audience, including other coworkers. His family all gave toasts after and they were great, and basically the whole thing was way fun and I think all weddings should be Zoom. No hugging, for one thing.

I got all dressed up with my insulation hair that is a result of 10 months without cutting my hair. Have any of you gone to a salon? Did you die of COVID after?

Also, I should be honest. “All” dressed up isn’t quite accurate.

On Sunday Edsel rolled in something dead, so that was relaxing. I had to bathe him, which by the way hurts my back. If I ever get rich I’m getting one of those special dog bathing areas that people have, where I don’t have to kneel into a bathtub like a washerwoman.

So basically Edsel hated me for an entire morning. He also did not care for the cut of my jib nor did he pick up what I was throwing down. We were estranged.

So I took a long walk without him. Not really because he was mad at me, but because this is a trail where


walk their dogs


and you know how I enjoy people who do that. Yesterday I saw many cute dogs and A LAB PUPPY but none of them were off leash so while Edsel would have called the police and had a Karen video made of himself, he would not have had the option to actually eat another dog so he maybe could’ve gone with me but the thing is you can’t know that till you get there. Anyway, above is a tree I saw on the walk, where apparently people are adding toys and that is sort of charming. Not as charming as an off-leash dog, but close.

So that sums up my weekend and now it is 8:22 and I have to gird loins for the week ahead. You know what I’m bad at? Being surprised by work. Since I KNOW this is a big worky week, it will probably go OK. If I have no clue and then get the OH MY GOD IT’S 5 CAN YOU GET THIS DONE BY 5:01 IT’S 900 PAGES, if I get that, then I panic and get all sweaty and weepy. But I was warned this would be a big week so I am emotionally prepared. I think.

So I’ll wrap it up, but oh! I had a deep thought whilst I was convalescing, and that is this: A thing happened to a friend of mine and I wanted to tell you to not be this guy.

I’ve a friend who leaves town a lot for work, which for me would be my biggest nightmare but that’s irrelevant. She just so happens to be traveling to her niece’s new town next week, so she said, “Hey, Ima call my niece for a get-together while I’m there.” She did and the niece was all, hell yeah.

Cute, right?

Except my friend’s dad found out and said, “I’ll go too!”

Don’t do that. Don’t be that guy.

Let people have their alone time. Let them have their dynamic without you always there. Do you have older kids? When they come home, let them visit gramma without you going along. Let them shop with their aunt, just the two of them.

My uncle lived in Arizona most of my life, but when I was an adult (“adult”) he moved back to my hometown with his second wife. When I’d come back for a visit, sometimes I’d go over there and my uncle would be at work and his wife and I would visit. We’d drink glasses of beer on her screened-in porch and she’d tell me stories from her (fascinating) life. Eventually she whipped out her photos from when she was a




model back in the day.

Would I have ever gleaned this info had anyone else been with me? I doubt it. I’m just saying. If you care about people, let them have their own relationship, without you horning in every minute.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.


Mrs. Margarineworth

I’ve been in hell.

I’ve never had a migraine last that long, and you know what? The one before this one lasted a full 24 hours, which is also unusual. THIS one lasted almost 72 fekking hours. So that’s been relaxing. Is this going to be my new thing, extra flavor extra fun in my migraines to come?

And of course I went to work. I just missed a whole week of work, I didn’t dare come back only to call in sick.

You know what finally got rid of it? I’ll tell you. First of all, I called my doctor today, who saw me right away. And by “saw” I mean we Jane Jetsoned it with my computer on and her computer on, talking to each other. What I like best about my doctor right now is that she needs regular glasses but then reading glasses on top of them to see the computer screen, so twice now during this plague I’ve met with her online while she’s wearing two pair of glasses, one right on top of the other like it’s normal.

I shall miss her when she dies or quits or fires me.

Anyway, she told me to take another Imitrex, along with 600 mg of ibuprofen, and she also told me she’d write me a note to get me out of work, and that I should double up on my anti-nausea pills and just go to bed. I told her what I just told you, about how I HAD to work cause I was just gone.

So my plan was to do everything she said except the anti-nausea pills, and because I can never abstain from revealing my whole life to everyone, I announced on Facebook that I was on day three of a migraine and did anyone have a guillotine I could borrow. I was half-kidding.

“Stick your feet in hot water and put ice on your neck,” said a kid I went to junior high with. I realize the best part of life is the thinner slice and also that no one calls it junior high anymore, but I’m sorry, when I was in school we called it junior high WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

And you know what I did? I listened to the dude I went to junior high with.


Sticking my feet in hot water and putting ice on my neck WORKED. I had to redo it after awhile, as the pain crept back, so the second time I did it I also took the ibuprofen, but not the prescription drugs, and I’ll be damned if I’m not almost OK right now.

So there you go.

Meanwhile, you should see my house. Remember Fred Sanford’s? My house, with me doing nothing since Saturday night, is not what you’d call camera-ready. Oh my god. Oh my garsh, as my JUNIOR HIGH teacher used to pronounce it.

There were dishes in the sink, a thing that bothers me greatly in normal, nonsick life. There were opened boxes from my HelloFresh deliveries and Ring doorbell deliveries and so on. There was laundry, all the microfiber towels and that sort of kitchen linen category stuff, just thrown onto the kitchen table because I was lucky I even took anything out of the dryer at all, so ill was I.

I mean, everywhere I looked tonight after work, there was something to tidy.

And I’ve committed myself to so much STUFF this week. I told this guy who got laid off that I’d look at his portfolio. I told someone I’d write her obituary. I have two vet appointments and today I clean forgot about my flu shot at my doctor. I also have one scheduled at work later, so that’s not the end of the world, but it makes me feel icky to have forgotten.

I have a financial advisor tomorrow night, in an attempt to not end up under a bridge for my retirement.

Also I had my trainer last night and again Thursday. Can you believe I went to the trainer yesterday? As crappy as I felt? I mean, I felt rotten. And yet there I was last night, in m’workout pants and my t-shirt, the energy of a thousand suns flowing within me. It must have felt like training Mrs. Butterworth. I took my own sweet time, I can tell you that.

Why do I always opt for Mrs. Butterworth as my example? Surely there was some other odd character from my years spent before the television. Why do I never whip out Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee, or Toucan Sam? The Freakies?

But no. I always go back to the woman who bathed my flapjacks in her sweet slow syrup.

Anyway, so I feel, like, 70% better right now, and tomorrow morning I have to cram both Iris and Forest into the same cat carrier, as I own only one now, thanks to the shelter stealing mine. We have to be at the vet at 8:30, and I plan to just work from there whilst they observe Iris for thyroid and make sure Forest is a boy. I assure you he is a boy, as I have seen his Sherwood Forest. If you’re picking up what I’m cutting down. I have seen the Forest from his tree.

I’d be funnier if I weren’t coming off a migraine. It’s like June, now swathed in cotton.

Ima take all the sheets and wrinkly bedspread off and put on new stuff, as the old stuff is all twisted and I was sickly in it and I want everything to be clean and welcoming. Even when I sleep with a migraine, I am off. I know the whole time I’m asleep that I have one. And usually my teeth hurt the next day cause I’ve been grinding them against the pain.

Migraines. Go get one soon!

A woman I used to work with likes to travel all over yonder, a thing I have never had much passion for. And anyway, she was in, like, Vietnam when she got her first-ever migraine. As she lay there, she thought of all the times I had one and she could never quite understand how a headache could do me in the way it did. Till then. In Vietnam.

Lieutenant Dan, indeed.

I’ll talk to you later, after I’ve taken the cats to the vet and met with my financial advisor who is going to say, “Marry a rich man” and so forth. If you need me before then, stick your feet in hot water.


Maybe I just need a Dristan. You know what I’ve thought a lot about in 30 years? Dristan.

Yesterday was perfect. Sunny, breezy, in the low 70s, and? I missed all of it.

If I believed in emojis I’d add one of those clapping hands one between each of the following words: I [clap] am [clap] so [clap] sick [clap] (you get the gist) of these migraines. I looked at my Facebook memories today and had not one but two memories from various years, complaining of lots of migraines, so I must get them a lot as it’s transitioning to fall.

But also, this time I drank, a thing I rarely do anymore because it (wait for it) often gives me a migraine. So I go along not drinking for long stretches and then fun presents itself and I forget. Conveniently.

I went to a bar on Saturday, because you know how I’m not at all scared of coronavirus and just bust loose all over yonder with my crowds and partayys. But remember back when life was normal, how on Fridays I’d go to dinner with my neighbors? One of the dinner people is moving back to Chicago to be with her family, so we had a little goodbye for her. It was held at the pub across from our restaurant that we go to, a pub that has outdoor seating. I guess it’s more a brewery than a pub. What’s the difference? I guess they brew it there, on site, is the difference, sparky. Anyway, it was also the last weekend of that place.

I have about a million pictures of me at that brewery, on this here blog. I took Lottie there two or three times. It’s where Griff said he’s “just drawn to foreign films about lesbians.” I played Scrabble there, and won with my excellent word: Za. Yes, it IS in the dictionary. Look it up.

Anyway the coronavirus has brought that pub to an end, sadly. So I gathered all my courage and my mask and headed there, and sat outside 6 feet from everyone else. I saw two couples I know who were both there saying goodbye to the place, as well.

One of the women in my dinner group is going through a major life change, so I said to her, “You know what you need? Is a tarot reading,” so we have that set up. By the way, ALL of them should be done for you guys, so please email me here in this blog’s email ( if you did NOT get your reading. Title your email “TAROT.”

Anyway, so I’m glad I got out and did that and I’ll let you know if I die of plague. Remember when plague was like an exaggerated joke? I’m avoiding her like the plague! Hahaha! …yeah.

I went home and went to a Zoom Mary Kay party, a party a few faithful readers attended with me. I took a screen shot of it but no one said I could use the screen shot so I won’t.

Here. Here’s just me at the Mary Kay party. A party of one. I mean I cropped everyone else out. The point is, I had my signature vodka and Powerade Zero during the party, and not only was my skin smoove after but I was too. I was saying yes to Martini and Rossi on the rocks. Say yesssss.

And here’s what I should do. I should just take a migraine pill prophylactically when I drink. Although I feel like I never want to drink again. Because OH MY GOD I was ill yesterday. That migraine lasted 24 hours and I can tell I still have it, really, I’m just medicated.

The only times I got up yesterday was to feed or let out an animal, and when I saw the breezy perfect day I was so depressed. I hate missing out on life because 9 days a month I am ill. It’s insane. I recently went to my doctor about it and she prescribed an antidepressant. She said those sometimes reduce migraines. I don’t know why I agreed to that, as I’ve tried that before and it didn’t work. I think I forgot I’d tried it before or something.

Anyway, I have to go. I know I told you last week that I took the week off and got a big list of stuff I wanted to do and I did everything on the list, most notably my chair. I did my chair. As it were.

^^^It’s done! How does it look?^^^

No. Down HERE it’s done. And I took this photo after the last coat and it hadn’t dried yet so I want you to know it’s not this splotchy in real life.

I don’t know what made me choose purple other than I liked it because it was gaudy, but now I feel like I have to get new cushions for my patio chairs, purple and turquoise cushions, to tie in the turquoise umbrella, turquoise Adirondack chair and now inexplicably purple metal chair. Currently I have magenta cushions and it’s like Frida Kahlo decorated the patio. I just need a monkey and a strong brow and I’m set.

I also screwed up all my courage and went to my favorite vintage store and got a side table. I was all careful and measured the space by my couch, then measured the table itself with a ruler I took with me to the store like I’m a Virgo or something, and it fit the space but you know what I didn’t measure? Height. The table is exactly as tall as my couch and it kind of bugs. I’ll take a photo when I, you know, feel like it.

Anyway now my vacation is over, a vacation that began and ended with a migraine, and in 10 minutes I have to turn on my email and see what horrors await me.