Brought to you by Hudson’s cosmetic counter

I blogged yesterday, and included my end-of-the-year video along with a few photos of gifts I’ve gotten recently that I don’t know who sent. So scroll down when you’re done here for




Also, yesterday I bought makeup. I KNOW!!

I have always been a makeup person. My grandmother had a vanity covered in lipsticks and powders and “creme” eye shadows that were stupid. Really, there is nothing more stupid than creme eye shadow. Hey, color that smears off in minutes! What a genius idea!

I realize, in retrospect, that most of those perfumes and mascaras and so on were left over from the various women who’d lived at gramma’s: my mother, my aunt, my uncle’s wives, or girlfriends who hung around a lot. This gave me a magnificent array from which to choose. Pale blue eye shadow left there in 1969, or the burnt-orange lip cream in a pot some feminist hooker had forgotten in 1972?

That is the only person I can think of who’d wear orange lip cream in a pot, which I distinctly recall being one of my selections. I also remember a lipstick I really liked, kind of an iridescent one called Moonglow. I liked the name, and also it looked fabulous on my seven-year-old lips.

By the time I’d finished at gramma’s vanity, I was the template for Jon-Benet Ramsey.

They were an odd family, the -Benet Ramseys.

Anyway. The moment I had any money whatsoever, like, if I earned $2 babysitting, I’d scream over to the glamorous Sears cosmetic counter and get, oh, a Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker, or a Max Factor face mask. Nothing but the best for me.

There was also a drug store I’d frequent, and admire the lip glosses in rectangular tins, the Ten-O-Six lotion, the Love’s Rain Scent.


The good news is, my city got a fancy Hudson’s at some point, and I realized there was more to life: Halston nail polish, and Clinique, and OH MY GOD I WAS TRANSFIGURED.

Also, I am not making it up that Halston had nail polish, for a brief sojourn, there, in maybe the late ’70s/early ’80s, aka THE BEST YEARS EVER despite the fact that I looked like a man. A man who wore makeup. I was Victor/Victoria, brought to you by Hudson’s cosmetic counter.

However, I can’t for the life of me find a sample of it. It had a heart-shaped top.

77fa20bdf47578aa9f2ae7625bd2d7ee.jpgOh thank god. I’m not crazy. Also, this is a terrible ad. Hey, don’t show the product.

I was friends with this terrible girl, who was way richer than me, in like 8th and 9th grades. She had this really lovely turn-of-the-century house and her parents were still married, and everything. And yet she insisted I shoplift one of those nail polishes from the sample counter. I kept saying no, so finally SHE took it and gave it to me after. I always felt bad using it.

She was an odd duck, that one, and had very bad hair.

Continuing on, says Pot. Hey, odd/weird hair, you’re black!

Once I married Marvin, and we had some money, some moola, some cash flow (not much, but enough), and I was living in FREAKING LA, I could not even with all my makeup choices. There were high-end boutiques that sold all the never-heard-of-it shit you read about in Elle. There were FREESTANDING MAC stores. There were department store cosmetic counters to fucking die for.

I proofread for this one company for years–still freelance for them, in fact. They paid me for my commute so I’d keep working for them, because trust me, that commute was a bitch. So I’d walk in having already earned a big $20. Then, if there was a lot of work, I’d always stay late, and we had an agreement that if there was nothing, I could go.

Some days I got to leave at 10:30 a.m.! Not often, but maybe once every few months. I was already over there on the highfalutin’ side of town, and was gonna get paid $20 for driving there and $20 for driving back, so on days I got out early, I’d go shopping in Santa Monica or Beverly Hills and even now, the thought of the really good makeup I bought makes me all screamy.

Then I got divorced and poor.

For the last six years, I’ve mostly bought my makeup at the grocery store. Since I love cosmetics so much, I’ve read up on what’s good for cheap, and I’ve made do.

This year, I’ve freelanced like a demon, and yesterday I went to Belk and Sephora and shopped for cosmetics, giving myself a dollar limit and a list of good stuff I wanted to try. It was like the best day ever. Wedding day schmedding day.

Below are (sit down) Amazon links to what I bought. Also, someone recently told me they “don’t understand how” to shop my links.

There will be a photo that I will tell you, hey, this is a link to Amazon. Click it. You’re on Amazon. Buy anything at all.

That’s it. That’s the whole process.

So, hey, below is a link to Amazon…

I got a sample of this stuff. I also got a sample of…

(Say, June, is that also a link to Amazon? YES!)

Then I actually went to town and PURCHASED that big tray of Clinique Chubby Sticks that I admired, which I am sad to tell you does not come as an Amazon link, probably because it’s an on-sale-now, limited-time, Christmas thing.

IMG_E2398.JPGI was really excited about it, but you know what? The consistency of them is weird. They’re very waxy and just barely go on. I’ve had that problem with Clinique in the past–the eye shadows, it’s like you’re playing house. NOTHING GOES ON. Same with some of the eye pencils.

Stop being so fucking hypoallergenic and just get on me.

Here, above, is another Amazon link to the concealer I bought. I covered my weapon with it.

And finally, people are forever droning on about Diorshow mascara. Remember that year Obama’s State of the Union was only about Diorshow? I’ve tried it before and was all, eh. Yesterday I noted in the checkout that they had different iterations of Diorshow, so I tried the volume extra hold the phone Hoda Kotb wow lookie there kind, put it on in the car because I’m a freak and


that stuff is magnificent. I looked like a fuckin’ drag queen, my lashes were so long. From now on, the only show for me is a Dior show.

So that’s it. Oh! No. That’s not it.

I always wear Bobbi Brown eye shadow in Gray, which apparently Amazon doesn’t have a link for, they just have links for Bobbi Brown palettes, and GOD, Amazon. I like how they had links for every other freaking thing and I get all mad about this. Anyway, I got me some new Gray, because I am riveting.

IMG_2400.jpgBehold a photo of me yesterday with day seven on a migraine, no foundation, that DiorShow mascara and one of my chubby sticks in something-or-other caramel.

Wow, June. Now I’m inspired. You’re a dream.

Okay, I gotta go. It’s been lovely talking makeup with you, and you know what I always say…

Fuck natural.

Kahlo of the wild. Or Fridatlanta. What do you want from me. I’m hung over.

Back when I first became a blogging person, in eighteen aught six, someone told me about another funny blogger named Miss Doxie.

What I just did, there, was call myself “funny” again, and that’s twice in a row, now. But I’ve only called myself funny twice since eighteen aught six, so that’s saying something.

The point is, I took to reading the Miss Doxie, and I was what you’d call a big fan. Oh, she was hilarious, and like me, was also incredibly successful and ridiculously pretty.

The day June lost eighteeen aught six readers.

Eventually, Miss Doxie and her long-term boyfriend, who never deserved her, broke up, and she met a new boy, who did. Deserve her, I mean. Whereas the first guy was not as…pretty as she was and also was a commitmentphobe, the new guy was cute cute cute, and proposed in less than two years, I think it was.

Oh, it was exciting when he proposed. So there I was, all caught up in someone else’s life story, and her wedding day was almost as exciting as my own.

cemeterywedding_lytlefoto043She got married in a cemetery, and Dear Miss Doxie: I stole this off the internet please do not arrest me.

The point is, she was someone whose blog I read and occasionally commented on, and then one day in 2011 I was at my lawyer’s office, commencing to get a divorce and I get an email from her.

From her! From Miss Doxie!

I can’t recall what it said, exactly, but I know she told me she read MY stupid blog, and boom, there it was. We became friends. I visited her in Atlanta later that year, and we stayed in touch, and she’d say, You have to come back and visit, and I’d say yeah.

This weekend, she had her annual oh-my-god-this-woman-loves-Halloween Halloween party, and she invited me, and I said, You know what? Hell yes Ima go. So I slapped on some antlers and drove six hours.

img_1467.pngI went as Frida Kahlo. I mean, for Halloween. Not as a houseguest. Yes, I’ll come visit, but you must call me Frida all weekend.

If you’re not familiar with Frida, and really?, you may wonder why I had the antlers going. Sometimes she painted herself with antlers, but I did not have time to search for Frida photos for very long, because it turns out I took 168 pictures this weekend, which took 800 years to upload, it took eighteen aught six hours to upload and oh my god now I’m in a hurry.

IMG_1275.jpgMiss Doxie had moved since I last visited, but as I pulled onto her street, I pretty much knew I’d found her house.

IMG_E1276.JPGNo scary stone was left unturned, man. Miss Doxie is in the details.

IMG_E1334.JPGIMG_E1289.JPGIMG_1291.jpgThe best part was, you never knew which thing was just gonna START ANIMATING when you walked up to it. A bear rug would start roaring and glowing red-eyed at you. A fucking creepy-ass doll would follow you and whisper.


Or, for that matter…

I got to stay in the guest house, which was pretty cool, man. Miss Doxie is an excellent hostess, on top of all the other, you know, positive qualities and so forth. I eventually retired there to get ready for the shindig, because I’m from eighteen aught six. The jamboree. The gala.

IMG_1310.jpgI remember somebody once telling me that getting ready for the prom was the most fun part of prom. I kind of feel that way about getting ready for a party. This part is just so anticipatory.

IMG_1312.jpgOne hour of makeup, three hours of shopping at basic-girl stores for jewelry, half an hour of Amazon shopping for antlers and flowers, and zero time spent at the waxer this month, and fin. I am Frida. Where is my Diego?


IMG_1329.jpgIMG_1339.jpgIMG_1318.jpgI was pretty pleased with other people’s costumes, and it should be noted that Doxie’s bartender came, which slayed me, and he was downstairs at her bar and said, “Let me make you an old-fashioned.” Who was I to argue? I’ll tell you who I was to argue. How about an adult who should know her limits? Maybe that’s who I coulda been. Later, a friend of Doxie’s said, Let me make you a spiced rum-and-cider drink. Who was I to argue?IMG_1451.jpgOh, June. That’s not actually a person, June.

I was having a high time, till somewhere around midnight, that six-hour drive and oh, possibly the eight gallons of alcohol hit me, and I was bone tired. Tired. In m’bones. I tried to go tell Doxie I was wandering back to my Fonzie guest house, but she was saying goodbye to people at the door.

I got in my pajamas and as I told her the next day, left a Shroud of Turin on her washcloth, washing off that Frida makeup.

I was just drifting off when my phone buzzed. “We’re just girls left, and we’re having girl wine!” Doxie texted me. “I’m already in my pa” I wrote back, then fell into a dead sleep till morning.

Turns out, she stayed up till 4. FOUR! Who is a pussy? Is it me?

IMG_1463.jpgEven little girls drank harder than me. Had I had any more alcohol, I’d have been less Oz and more paging Dr. Oz. So.

IMG_1284.jpgIMG_1283.jpgThe point is, I survived, and got to kibitz with her dogs, and her spouse, and her people, and it was so worth driving 12 hours in one weekend.

And the possible alcohol poisoning.

Now tomorrow I gotta, you know, put that outfit on again, as it is actually Halloween.


But I can do it. I’m not a Frida-cat.


Traveling June

Miss Doxie, the very reason I have a “June doesn’t know any ugly people” category.

Qualified June

Amazon is being a dick. They sent me this long email that said nothing, about how I need to have “qualified sales” and that I don’t, and I don’t know what “qualified” could mean, seeing as you guys buy a lotta stuff. (Say, thanks!)

I wrote back, and they answered with another vague email (“Once you’ve had three qualified sales…”).

There is an ad for Amazon either on your sidebar or at the bottom of this blog, depending on if you’re on a phone or a desktop. If you’re on a phone, you have to scroll forever to see it–I don’t know why. I asked WordPress to help me, and they did get it so the ad’d show up, but you have to REALLY MEAN IT to see the Amazon ad on a phone or tablet.

The point is, maybe they’re going to cut me off. Without a cent. And they won’t speak English and tell me why. Why aren’t my sales “qualified”?

Oh, look! A link to Amazon! IS THIS A QUALIFIED SALE if three people click on it and buy something on Amazon today? I DON’T KNOW. Because they WON’T GIVE ME A SPECIFIC ANSWER.

Lu annoy.

In other news, I was rejected three different ways yesterday. I can’t go into specifics, but three. I was doing okay with rejections one and two, but once three hit, I was all, COME ON, GOD.

I didn’t even INCLUDE Amazon threatening to reject me.


Also, this happened. My friend Hamlet and I often send each other images from our thwarted attempts at love, by texting each other the sad/offfensive messages and photos we get from our online dating swains. I recently sent him my nice message from Luv2PutItInU. Which is still not as good as my all-time favorite, G-Spot Hunter.

Hamlet’s latest was a clearly crazy woman in a tiara. Sadly, I happened to have a tiara right at my desk, on top of my Hello Kitty coffeemaker, so I could reenact said photo. There is really no telling which be-tiara-ed woman was really crazier yesterday. Say “really” one more time.

Also, I am sorry to tell you this, but Ward and I did not work out. I know the tone of this post makes it seem like he was one of the rejectors, but he was not. It was me. It wasn’t him, it was me, literally.

But look. It was a short-lived thing, and that’s too bad, but that’s what dating is. You see how it goes with people and you make informed decisions before you get too caught up. I might know from caught up when you shouldn’t be. I might know from that.

I might.

So I may be erring on the side of caution a lot these days. Sue me.

wat hell, mom? hooo you to be pickee?

Note most of the photos of this creature are when he’s about to eat. This is because it is the only time he is home.

Other than my rejection and my annoyance at Amazon and my slight sadness that it didn’t work out with Ward and my deep and abiding affection for my friend Hamlet and also Steely Dan, because I choose the wrong mencats, I got nothing. I’m not really blue, per se, just sort of stung.

Mencats is totally a thing.

So let’s just scroll through old photos and clap ourselves out.

Awwww. This is at the very top of my photos. Roger.


MISS DOXIE! I should probably not pose with her.


Seriously, June, stop posing with the Dox


Kitten Iris


Lu. Delighted about Violet since never.


Marvin and Henry in their early-divorce bachelor pad.


heeeee (again)


I’ve plowed through a lotta pets.

Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Try not to reject me today, would ya?





Freelance work is here

For the next week, I will be proofreading a textbook when I'm not at my regularly scheduled job. I will not be here a lot, and also if you know me in real life, I will not be phoning with you a lot. I'll be back when I can!

I took photos of my toilette this morning to tide you over. I know, man. You are welcome.

  Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.19 AM #2 Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.21 AM #2 Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.23 AM Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.25 AM #3 Photo on 3-17-17 at 8.35 AM
TAAA-DAAAAA! (I really don't look good in green. I cheated with kind of a teal today. Also, today marks five years since I've had sex with anyone but Ned. Add THAT to your Big Book o'June Events. Also, mark a spot up ahead, will you? Cause this is bullshit, man. We must work to remedy this sitch.)

(Hi, mom.)

Joe Lies

I be Hutch. Wear be Starskee?



I hadn't had my eyebrows waxed since Wilford Brimley was a child, so I went to Elegant Nail & Tan, which I realize suggests all kinds of featured services that do not seem to include waxing, but you must trust me on this. While I was waiting, I got to know a woman sitting next to me. We talk talk talked and we're the same age and both single and finally we exchanged numbers and picking up women is super easy.

Why can't I get my eyebrowns, as they say, to look at good as they get them to look? It's completely worth the six dollars.

Other than that, I went to the grocery store and loaded myself up with frozen yogurt bars for the next two weeks, and because I try to get in plant-based foods, one of the boxes was strawberry flavor. The other bars were vanilla, and isn't the vanilla bean a plant? I think it is. So. Diet. Complete.

I have never seen a tanning bed at Elegant Nail & Tan. I'm not saying there isn't maybe one back there, but I've never seen it, and I've never heard anyone come in there and say, Yes, I'm  here to tan? Maybe they need to rethink their moniker. Elegant-ish Nail & Old Magazines.


At my old seat at work, I looked at an Impressionist-ish painting of fall trees against a blue sky, and now I look at multiple Os. That picture of me on my bulletin board is from this time we had to take selfies for a client presentation, and one day the janitorial staff left a note that read, "Is this trash" on a box, and some jokester put that note on my selfie and an eternal joke was born.

I meant to Google why companies move you around a lot, like, what's the benefit to them, but I forgot. If anyone knows, I'd be curious. Some people at work are really traumatized over it, if they've been at their desks forever and so on.

Others of us are excited to be reunited after being ripped apart. Like Joe and I were ripped apart.

Name that movie.

Anyway, other than that, I have a gigantic freelance job coming up starting tomorrow and going until next Friday. So if I up and disappear, it means I'm behind and I'm frantically working to get it all done. So be sure to pepper me with IMs and emails. WHERE ARE YOU, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOON? Are you dead, JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON?

I have already gotten my delightful credi card debt down to the next number. So, like, if I were 11,000 thousand dollars in debt, which I'm not thank god, I'd be down to 10,oooo now. Yay. So I keep plugging away. Which doesn't help pay the bills at all. "June keeps unplugging and plugging her appliances, yet she still has debt."

Shouldn't Tallulah have to pay this? Someone wake her up.

Iris and me having an Elliott and E.T. moment. Beeeee good. She's always good. I mean, to everyone but baby birds. And adult birds. Or anyone rodent-ish.

Also, I've noticed that there are always cars now at my next-door neighbor Peg's. Sometimes just one extra, sometimes two. Someone's been rolling her trash can to the curb, as well. This worried me, so I called her, and she's never called me back. It's been, like, a week. I don't want to be all Gladys Kravitz and go over there, but I feel like something is definitely up. There has never been a time Peg hasn't called me back.

Maybe she has Noro virus. Hey, June, you ever gonna get over Peg giving you Noro virus?

What do you think?

All right, I have to go to work, try to find my new desk.

Your friend and mine,


What is a “capade,” anyway? Are there ever Land Capades?


"Oh, good. It's that time of year that June makes us look at her daily Christmas cup. And also at the makeup smudges on her desk."

And her beaming-up dog.

Yesterday was Tallulah's birthday, but I tried not to dwell on that lest I fall into a sobfest. It was also Steely Dan's final round of shots, which looked liked no fun for him. They took him in the back, as they mysteriously do now, and brought him right back. "I'm so sorry," said the flustered tech. "He saw this little dog back there, just a tiny dog, and jumped right out of my arms after it. He arched up and hissed."

They decided to do his shots right in the room. Steely Dan is a bad ass.

He also weighs 7 pounds. Which is not what a 4-month-old (16 weeks) kitten should weigh. See what I did, there? I did the weeks to be annoying. You and your 37-month-old child. They took a gander at his teefs, a thing that similarly thrilled him, and determined he was not born July 11, but May 15.

"That makes perfect sense," I said. "He's so totally a Taurus and not a Cancer." I had to explain, then, that I used to live in LA and we needed to know all the astrology in order to get our driver's license.

While SD and I waited for the vet, he mostly leaped. The cat. Not the vet.


He leaped off the table.


Then on.






You get my drift.

how bout dis? dis for jumpeeng? it be anytheeng?

Anyway, after they gave him his horrible rabies shots (he bit a guy at work just minutes before his rabies shot. Am looking forward to that guy foaming today) and boosters and deworming medicine, they said, Hey, give us 288 dollars and you can go. (I also got his flea meds.)

The GOOD news is, because he's older than we thought, he's all set for neutering December 30. Yay! New year, no sack. No baby new year for THIS guy. And yes, I am having a de-sacking party for him, as I did for Edsel seven years ago.

I took that poor soon-to-be-sackless baby back home and got to work, and then at lunch I busied myself arranging all my apps by color on my phone.

IMG_3878 IMG_3877 IMG_3876

RIGHT? How bad do you want to be me right now?!

It's something of a tradition that they let us out early to get ready for the work Christmas party, and yes they call it a Christmas party, so I hurried home to see if the baby kitty was okay, and I couldn't find him and grew alarmed. I looked in his kitten bed…


…but as usual, Lily was bogarting it.


I was hoping he was resting in the sun, but it was Iris was in the bedroom, on my oh-so-neatly-made bed. "If you make your bed, the whole room looks neater," Ned often smugs. "It's the biggest piece of furniture in your room."

Oh, shut up.


Finally, I found him, with an eye mask and a Do Not Disturb sign. Poor Steely Dan. He never did rally, all night. He's a little livelier today, but hasn't eaten much. He thought he wanted to eat, then looked at it and said, Yeah, no.


Then, I got up with some of the Alexes at the manicure place. They both got a deep burgundy, but one got glitter and one didn't. aka worlds different.


This Alex had trouble deciding, and finally the manicure lady was all, "Just let your spirit be free," a thing she said with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth, and right then I knew, I loved the manicure lady.

Until, at the end, when all the fun was had, she asked, "Was that your daughter and her friend?"

I mean, YES, I could be their mother, but I get drunk with these people. Dang.


Old mom, here, got navy nails with one gold glitter nail on each hand. Note my Princess Diana/Kate real sapphire ring not at all from QVC, which is where they got theirs.


It went with my navy-and-champagne-polka-dot frock I got from Stitch Fix. Also, my vanity mirror is still not put together, and the light bulb is burnt out in the other room with a full-length mirror, so getting ready was a pleasure.


I put on enough makeup to join the Ice Capades.


And waited for my Mug Shot date. I just want you to know in real life, he laughs and smiles. You get a camera out and he's all Cell Block H.


The work CHRISTMAS party is no small feat. It's at this elegant hotel, and everyone's kids are invited, and there's shrimp and that one kind of red meat that's on that giant slab of meat and someone stands there and cuts it. What's that called? And there are presents for everyone under 10, and since I'm a 10 I didn't get one. Anyway, behold The Poet and Jane West, feasting. That is Ned's beer and not The Poet's. The idea of The Poet grabbing herself a brew is just about killing me right now.

The bartender got the beer out the ice, then smacked it onto a napkin and rolled it up. "Did you SEE that?" I asked, Ned, delighted. I don't get out a lot.


It's also dark in that room. Look what a wide load I am next to skinny Alex. Jesus.

The little kids were all dancing during the dinner music, throwing themselves across the dance floor and sliding and so on. You have no idea how bad I wanted to join them. But I'd have looked drunk, even though I wasn't.

There's one kid I've always been enamored with. I've put a picture of her in here, from a Halloween party in 2011, but I don't have time to search for it because Ned just called me to talk about his fancy president things he has to do, and one person you should really rely on for how to president is me. Nancy Reagan, over here. Just say yes.

If I were First Lady, which one would I be? I want to be Jackie, but let's face it, I'm Betty Ford.

Anyway, she's outgoing and delightful and she wears glasses, this kid who's at every Christmas party. I'm forever asking her dad if she's gonna be there again that year, and I'm certain at this point he's all, What the hell with June and her obsession with my kid?

But she gets out there in her little Christmas dress and leads the kid dancing every year.

This year, she came right over to my table. "I like your polka-dot dress," she told me. Then she turned to Ned. "Hi, I'm Morgan, " she announced confidently. Oh my god.

Anyway, we danced, Kid of Confidence and me. We danced to some song I've never heard in my life, because old and no mainstream music exposure, then we danced to some song from the '70s I was thoroughly enjoying and can no longer recall. Play That Funky Music? I really can't remember. It was 10 hours ago.

"Did you have fun?" asked Ned as we drove home. We were the last people to leave. Poor Ned.

"I did. Except…" I hesitated.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"I don't feel like there was enough exclaiming by everyone over how pretty I looked."

And that is when Ned decided to just drop me off at my door.

Releasing the splendor of me,


Retro June

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I'm so retro.

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

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

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



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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo on 11-16-16 at 8.03 AM

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

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

wee exhaust, mom. kittee exhaust.

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


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

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

House O’ Hurr

Yesterday I got my 10,000 steps in, did 35 minutes of Tracy Chapman, and then sat down to watch Real Housewives with a bag of Fritos. And this is why I hate myself.

Oh, also I walked Edsel yesterday, and the people on the corner have an 8-week-old BABY GERMAN SHEPHERD PUPPY. As opposed to an adult puppy.

They did the thing. They were all out in the yard, letting it run free, so I made Edsel stop. "He's okay," they said, meaning their bitty puppy. Sigh.

"He's NOT," I said, meaning my dog-eat-dog-world of a dog. Jesus Christ. Ima start a national campaign. STOP LETTING YOUR DOGS BE LOOSE. NO MATTER WHAT.

My dog is following the rules. He's on a leash. If your free-to-be-you-and-me dog runs up to us, your dog is done for. AND THAT WON'T BE MY FAULT.

If Edsel had eaten that bitty German shepherd puppy snickerdoodle I'd have died of sad.

In other news, this is my last day of work this week. Tomorrow I go on my vacation to the beach. It's supposed to be in the 70s and sunny all week, so yay. I really didn't take vacation this year, except to kill my dog and take Ned to his colonoscopy. So.

Oh, and I meant to ask you. What should I do for my 10-year anniversary of blogging? It's December 15, and I thought I should do something more than what I did for the two-year cotton anniversary in 2008.


Nice. Also, while I was Google Imaging "ByeByePie" + "Cotton," I found this…


Did I once give away cupcake floss? Because mmmmmm!

Also, "give away." Did I once promise and never send someone cupcake floss?

Anyway, my 10-year anniversary. Should I have you all over? Should we all go to Hawaii together or something? Do tell me your ideas. A lot has happened in these damn 10 years.

Also too also, I am sick of my hair. I been doing the same damn thing to it for ages.

My hurr, in 2014

My hurr with DW's mom, in 2011

My hurr, 2013. How bad do you want me to stop saying "hurr"?

My friend Jo called last night, ironically, to ask me what she should do with her hair, and one place to go for all your hair advice is my house. June's House O' Hurr. Anyway what she told me is "not a damn thing. Don't change your hair."

Basically Jo doesn't want me to go changin', to try and please her. I've never let her down before.


What say you? I mean, if I cut it short I'll look like George Washington. If I blow it straight I'll look basic. I can't win.

I gotta go. This whole time I've been trying to write you, a teensy annoying gray paw has been striking me from behind the computer. Is there a 24-hour drive-through put-your-kitten-to-sleep place near here?

I probably won't blog from the beach because I used to be able to email this blog and post that way, but now Typepad claims you can do that but it never actually posts what you emailed. So. I also can no longer reply to comments unless I get on here and comment directly, a thing that always looks good at my desk in the open floor plan.

Talk to you later, when I'll be sure to say hilarious things including "Life's a Beach." Maybe I'll even get one of those "Life's Good" stickers that don't make me want to kill everyone around me or anything. Here's what happens every time I see one of those stickers:

Sticker: Life's Good! : )

June: Fuck you. You fuck sticker.



Today I can’t think of a title. Post-migraine fog.

I had this snappy plastic lid that I used to cover the other half of Steely Dan's canned food, as he eats half a can at a time. Correction: he WOLFS half a can at a time. There's no trouble with SD's appetite. He is not a finicky eater. And every time he devours another bowl of food, I make a big fuss. "Oh, what a good kitty! You're going to be so big and strong!"

tell steelee dan something he don't no.

Anyway, Edsel ate the lid. He got up on his stupid hind legs, took the goddamn lid off the counter, and chewed it up. Now it's a plastic waning gibbous on his bed.


I had to leave work with a migraine yesterday. I went to lunch in the park with my coworker Molly, and I could feel it coming on then.


By midafternoon, it was a screaming migraine of alarming proportions.

So I left and slept all afternoon, which was good, and when I woke up, the headache was gone, which is also good. But then I had the lethargy, where I just sat here like a lump, a personality-less lump, till it was socially acceptable to go to bed. I don't know who I was trying to impress. Iris couldn't even SEE me. Or the clock. So.


I just noticed this in my downloaded pictures from yesterday. This was what I woke up to yesterday afternoon. I don't even remember taking this. Edsel should really look into getting a more pathetic look about him. Probably SD had been pouncing on him all afternoon and I'd slept through it. I can also see that my shirt is at the end of the bed, so I just ripped off my clothes and threw them anywhere before getting into bed. That's always a good sign.

Do you have any bad signs like that? Like, right after Ned and I broke up last year, I went to bed with my trench coat still on, stayed that way for about three hours.

Not a good sign.

Or if the clothes just get tossed to the floor (or, as seen above, the bed) before I fall asleep, I was either sick or drunk. I usually at least attempt to throw them in the hamper. I mean, the tights might be dangling off the sides a tad or whatever.

I keep meaning to tell you that when SDS pounces on one of the big cats, in other words 20 hours a day, and the big cat–whichever disgruntled one it is at the moment–growls? Edsel runs over there to break it up. I think he doesn't want anything happening to his kitten. No matter where he is, he tears into the room and gets between cat and kitten to protect Steely Dan, who if you ask me doesn't need any protecting. That cat is all boy.

Once at a funeral I met a woman who'd babysat Ned when he was a kid. "Oh, I remember you," she said. "You were all boy."

No one's ever said that about me. You know what else no one's ever called me? A tomboy. I know this comes as something of a shock. There was nothing worse than when the only kid available in the neighborhood was one of those awful tomboy girls.

"You wanna climb a tree, break an arm, then shoot something?"

Yeah, no. I got a whole apple barrel full of relatives' leftover makeup, a Barbie that's just DYING to put on some heels and a sparkly dress, and a tape recorder so we can act the whole thing out. Dafuq's wrong with you, teensy lesbian person?

"Ya wanna ride bikes down the trail and play kickball?"

Jesus. [Takes spangled lipstick brush and goes home.]

Don't you wish you could do that now, just go outside and meet friends? It was so easy. Marvin once told me about a new kid in his neighborhood, whom he met by riding his bike past the kid, yelling out, "Gay rider!" and then asking, "You wanna be friends?"

This charming opening line worked, and Marvin is still friends with that guy, as far as I know.

I'd better put on some clothes and get to work. I hope my head doesn't come back. Return of the Head. I went a good two months with zero migraines. SO WHY NOW? WHY? I've no idea.

Did I mention to you that I'm going on a vacation next week? I am. I'm going to the beach. I had no vacation this summer, so I'm going. The only days I took off were to kill my dog and take Ned to his colonoscopy, and this year I have three weeks of vacation so I'm taking advantage. I can't afford it, but I'm going anyway. Fuq it.

I will talk to you tomorrow, gay riders, and I can only hope tomorrow's post will be as pressing and necessary as this one was.

June gets on her soapbox

Lemme tell you how Ned has ruined me. In case you wondered, "Gee. How has Ned ruined June?"

Today I was in the shower, and please try not to get too distracted by the hotness.


Do you know she was 48 when she did this scene? That's Angie Dickenson, for anyone reading this who's 19.

Anyway. I was in the shower today, and my soap is at that point where it's a mere sliver of itself. I always feel bad when I'm at that point, because I hate to waste any of it, but when it keeps SLIPPING OUT OF MY HAND, I get annoyed. I generally have a three-slip rule, and then I throw it away. But today, even though my soap is the size of a quarter, it hung on. I kept the sliver, but once I was out of the shower, I got a new box of it out and squooshed the new soap onto the old and put them in the shower thingie®, that metal thing that hangs over your shower head. Angie, what is it? You're in the shower, up there.

Is Angie Dickinson dead?

HOW NED HAS RUINED ME is that the box? I have to recycle the damn box now, the box the soap came in. Back during my year abroad, the shower was upstairs and the recycling was downstairs, and Ned would keep his empty box of unscented soap for sensitive skin on the windowsill for weeks, on its way to the recycle bin downstairs. I was often tempted to throw it out, but I never did cause I didn't wanna hear about it.

It just seemed so over the top, taking that small box all the way downstairs. It'd be like throwing an anniversary bash for your hamster. I don't know.

And now? I recycle the goddamn soap box. I mean, I'm all on one floor, so. If it were a monumental struggle like taking it all the way downstairs, I'm not sure I'd be so earth-friendly.

I guess that's all I have to tell you. I got paid last night, THANK GOD, and at lunch Ima go get my browns waxed, because Wilford Brimley. Ima see family I ain't seen in five years, and I don't want them to be all, Poor single June. With her pets and her Wilford Brimley eyebrowns.

"Well, we had a nice time at the party, except for June and her eyebrowns."

Who needs to get over saying "eyebrowns," do you think?

Okay, talk at you. I'll be flying tomorrow so maybe Sunday if there's time.