Fellow hypochondriacs: How YOU doin’?

I’ve been oddly prepared for this whole thing. When I had my (wait for it) SURGERY four weeks ago, they had this little thingie you breathe into so you wouldn’t get pneumonia. For some reason I can’t recall, I brought it home with me. Was I supposed to? Did I steal it? Who knows. That time is but a blur.

The point is, I got it out the other day, thinking maybe this will strengthen my lungs. It’s hard to do, first of all, and now my lungs are kind of sore and the exercise makes me cough and I’m all IT’S PNEUMONIA. Because you know how I am.

My temperature is either 96 or 97 every time I check, so. And by the way, I purchased a thermometer on impulse like two months ago. See? Oddly prepared.

So that’s what I’m like right now. Sort of like always, but now with more reason®.

I get to start working from home tomorrow and I look forward to having to think about Oxford commas instead of pneumonia.

While we’re on the subject, the word is breathe. With an e. If you can’t breathe, or you need to just breathe, it’s an e. If it’s pronounced breeeeeth, it gets an e. If it’s pronounced breth, it does not.

Also, the aisles are empty. Not the isles.

Are we clear on that now?

Meanwhile, when I’m not grimacing at bad spelling on social media, I am getting to witness a lot of this ^^. Who knew these animals slept THIS much? It’s amazing. Why do they need this much rest? What are they training for?

I’m the go-getter of the household, apparently, which is saying something. During this, my convalescence, which has turned into this, my isolation, not only did I turn our family slides the right way, I’m also plowing through the books I’ve started and didn’t finish, because there was a time I would go to work all day, then go work out, then go to a movie or something. Sometimes I used to be gone from the house 12 hours out of 24. Okay, that was relatively rare. But I was always gone 40 hours a week. Now I’ve been here every second since February 18 with the exception of one house party, two trips to the garden store, one doctor visit and one vet visit. In all I think I’ve left the house for five hours.

Oh! And I voted. Another hour.

And a lotta good it did me.

Despite my low association with humanity since Feb. 18, I’m still taking my temperature and pausing dramatically any time I cough. I have GERD and seasonal allergies and mild asthma, but I cough once and begin picking out casket liners.

So that’s how things are going with me, and it’s relaxing, and did I mention I’m glad I can work from home tomorrow? I think I can do a whole day’s worth of work, but we’ll see. I haven’t gotten up early in a month. That alarm’s gonna be unwelcome, is what it will be.

In the comments, let’s not talk of anything scary. Let’s all tell a story of a time we said something hilarious. Or somehow perfect.

Like, this one time? A friend at an old job got this sort of weird love letter on her windshield. The person took the core of a paper towel, the brown part in the middle, ripped it open and wrote on that.

Nothing says, “I’m Prince Charming” like a note on a paper towel roll.

Anyway, my friend read me the note, which was fairly creepy, and when she was done I said, “Well, he’s the quicker picker-upper.”

See? Good lines like that. Oooo, or good things you’re doing to pass the time inside.


Cloudhonk Shintoot

One of my friends called me last night and said, “Oh, I’m glad I caught you at home.”

Also, my neighbor came over this morning to help me with my trash cans, and she asked, “So, what are your plans for today?”

It’s becoming a thing amongst some of my friends that they want to be the first to split me wide open with their funny funny humor. My friend from work, Austin, keeps trying to send me funny texts so that I blow open like the wafer-thin-mint guy.

But I already had hysterics when I spoke to Ned on the phone and he was complaining about his hair. (To a woman with no ovaries and a new scar who has to be housebound for six weeks.) Anyway, he said, “My hair just lies there, like Tony Randall.”

When I asked him why, he said it was because Tony Randall is dead. I realize that explanation doesn’t help us at all.

I do feel slightly less foggy as of yesterday afternoon. I’m not saying I’m not foggy, but I’m less foggy. I’m less Foghorn Leghorn and more Cloudhonk Shintoot.

I got a book from one of you that I really like and thank you. It is called Hazel Wood. You signed with the name you used to comment on my blog and I didn’t know your real last name to thank you.

It is occurring to me that I could’ve looked on my blog, found one of your comments, looked to see if you have an email address there and gotten a hold of you there. This lets me know that my brain is less foggy today and see above regarding Shintoot.

If I’m not mistaken, and I really could be, The Poet is going to come over today at lunchtime. Also Kit has offered to bring me lunch tomorrow. I have no appetite still, which I guess should be exciting, but I feel hungry and then nothing sounds good to me. Kit made me a chicken pie right at the beginning of my convalescence, and it was freaking delicious and it’s the only thing I was able to consume with any relish. Not literally. Anyway I’ve eaten it all. I think I’ll make her bring me a hamburger from one of the downtown restaurants tomorrow. I hope I can eat it.

Speaking of The Poet, I still have this ridiculous chat feature on my phone that we use at work. Mostly what the copy editors use it for is to ask, “Does anyone need any extra work? I have too much” or “Does anyone have any work to do? I have nothing to do.”

So I have seen those countless discussions while I try to get offa my cloud. The copy edit team is so nice to each other. Today I saw someone say, “Does anyone need any extra work? No pressure.” It’s just so polite. We’re like the Canada of the world of work teams.

I have to go. If Poet is really coming over I should shower and fix my Moses hair. My gray growout project is two inches in and these curls are very Red Sea parting. Perhaps this look is a mistake.

Once again, I hope any of this made sense because I feel like I’m making sense but then again I feel like I’m floating off on a cloud of waves. So what do I know?

UPDATE: I know comments are turned off and I’m trying, with my very clear head, to turn them on. With my smile.

UPDATE TO UPDATE: Comments fixed.

UPDATE TO UPDATE TO UPDATE: I got enough tips to pay for the stupid domain name so I took that part of my blog post down.

FINAL UPDATE: In the nine days since my surgery, I have been invited to four parties. All of which have occurred this past week or so. I couldn’t go to any of them but that’s more parties than I get invited to in a whole year usually. What is up with that?

Urethra, frankly

Now that it’s over and it looks like it’s gonna be pretty okay, I will tell you that I’ve just had the darkest three months of my life.

In October, I was finally getting over my concussion from my car accident, and things were going well. I was having fun at work, going to my trainer, getting over the screaming fear of a car slamming into the back of me. Things were good.

Then I started to feel like I had a UTI. (I know I’ve told you some of this but then I got scared and clammed up.)

For me, when I feel a urinary tract infection—and I’m assuming every woman reading this has had one and the two men who read haven’t—but for me, it feels like I have to pee so bad, I do, then I DO pee and once I’m done I think, Man, I have to pee so bad, I do. It feels like that all the time.

I had to go to the doctor anyway, for my regular checkup. My doctor is big on me coming in 47 times a month, a thing that annoys me. You never leave without her saying, “I want you to come back in [x] weeks.”

Anyway, here was me in the last sedate moment I had all year. Waiting for the doctor. I was just screwing around with my phone and happened to capture it.

“I definitely have a UTI,” I told her, and they had me pee in a cup (a thing I’ve done 4935893504043 times in the last three months). (I’ve gotten really good at it.)

I tested negative. They gave me antibiotics anyway. This made me anxious, because once I had an allergic reaction to penicillin and I always worry my tongue will blow up.

It didn’t. But the UTI didn’t clear up, either. I went back to the doctor. Tested positive for UTI this time.

Next round of antibiotics didn’t work.

I was miserable. I was running to the bathroom every 14 seconds. I was in such agony one day at work that I zipped over to the urgent care on the next block.

That time they found blood in my urine (but no UTI). “Well, if it were bladder cancer, it’d hurt, right?” I was just joking in my June’s-a-nervous-joker type of way.

“I don’t mean to scare you, but this is one of the signs of bladder cancer,” said the snip at urgent care. “You’d best go to your doctor.”


You can’t say shit like that to me. You can’t. Because that was in mid November, and since then I have become a urologist specializing in bladder cancer. I know the percentage of times people with asymptomatic microscopic hematuria end up having bladder cancer (4%). I know the percentage with gross hematuria who have it (10%) if they’re asymptomatic. Which I wasn’t. I had a symptom that was driving me out of my gourd.

All I did was lie around and Google and work myself into a tizzy. By the time my regular doctor opened the door to the room I was in, I was sobbing. “I just know I have bladder cancer,” I said to her. “Oh, you do not,” she said. But she hadn’t known about the microscopic hematuria, which by the way just means you had blood in your urine that you can’t see but when they test your urine they can.

Anyway, they set me up with a urologist but I couldn’t get in till mid-December. The fever pitch of anxiety I was in was astounding. And I know if you don’t have anxiety—well. I IMAGINE if you don’t have anxiety, because I can’t picture life without it, but I imagine medical scares go like this:

“Well, I’ll see the specialist in a month. For now, I’ll hope for the best.” Then I imagine you making the bed, looking smug and calm.

Oh my god.

I had trouble functioning. I lost 10 pounds. I’d asked my doctor for Xanax, which I only took on very bad nights, but I’d wake up four hours later in a cold panic. And then I’d Google some more.

I had to work every Saturday in November, and it was work I did with dogs and cats, and that was like a blessing from God or something, because it was the only thing that would help me do okay for maybe 20 minutes at a time.

Finally I saw the urologist.

Here I am, waiting for him. Let’s compare the two doctor visits from October to December.

Hey, you cut your hair. And went through the stress machine.

Anyway, the doctor was so reassuring. “The chances of it being bladder cancer are low,” he said. I don’t have the risk factors, and as he said, “Ninety-nine percent of the time, people SEE blood in their urine first.” I didn’t correct him that it was 96%.

He gave me some estrogen cream and some papers on being an old lady with a bladder and sent me back to work, where a coworker who had no idea what a tailspin she sent me into asked, “Are you okay?”


“Are you SURE?”

Oh my god that sent my anxiety through the roof. Was I sure? Was I?

I kept telling myself it was just one time they saw traces of blood in my urine, out of the 68 times my urine’s been tested. I reminded myself that the doctor said, “If you SEE blood in your urine, come back.”

That Saturday I went to a Christmas show with Marty and Kaye and Jo. I was in particular agony that day. The having-to-pee-all-the-time thing comes and goes in intensity and that day was red letter.

After the show, everyone went to dinner but I went home as I felt rotten. Of course I ran to the bathroom …

and saw blood.

I can’t even describe yet how scared I got. First, there was a helpful numb feeling that lasted maybe an hour. Then I started shaking and I believe I shook until yesterday afternoon.

That meant all of Christmas and New Year’s celebrations, I shook. Like a chihuahua. And I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to ruin Christmas. I made myself go through the Christmas motions. I have this clock my mother sent me: Every hour it chimes a different Christmas carol, and it was like it was mocking me. The cheerful Christmas songs when I was in this black hell.

Finally it got so bad that I took matters in hand. I mean, I couldn’t live like that anymore.

I told myself that so far, the worst part of this whole thing had been my attitude. Yes, peeing ALL THE TIME also sucks, but it was my fear making this intolerable.

I called my friend Paula, not the funny reader Paula but the one in Seattle. She is more scared of medical things than anyone I know, and on her first mammogram ever, which she’d put off for years, they came in and said, “Don’t even get dressed. We found something.”

“How did you deal with the terror?” I asked her one dark December afternoon as I lay in my robe.

“I had to accept it,” she told me. “Those first few months I just fought with everyone, and was belligerent, and once I realized I had to accept the truth of the matter, things got better.”

So I told myself sternly that I just had to wait to get my tests, and accept whatever came after. And you know that helped? I had a few days there where I felt almost normal, other than that Damocles sword of doom hanging over me.

Last week I drove myself to a CT scan in private, then returned to work like I’d just gone out for an errand. Yesterday I drove myself to a cystoscopy, where they drive a tube into your urethra, and if you’re looking for a good time…

Anyway, it turns out I have an ovarian cyst the size of your head. I’ve had it for years–they have records of it from an old scan. And there it still is. It’s a CYST, so please don’t scare the shit out of me with stories, THANK you. I go to my regular doctor next week and we’ll talk about getting it the hell out of me because chances are it’s pressing on my bladder and causing me to feel like this.

So I’m not 100% out of the woods of dark fear yet, but I 100% do not have bladder cancer, and oh my god that got solved so fast. I mean, the CT results came back clear (“Except you DO have an ovarian cyst the size of Guam”) but I knew the real results would come from that cystoscopy. I thought he’d be in there looking around for 15 minutes and I’d have to lie there with my heart thumping, but almost as soon as he was in there with his yellow submarine, he said, “Everything’s looking very normal, June.”

I like him. Also he’s handsome AF. We’ve already gotten to 6th base, where he sees your bladder.

So that’s what’s been new with me and I have some new anxiety-reducing techniques now and thanks, world, for that lesson GOOD GRAVY.

June and her cyster.

Pat Nixon is my spirit animal

how shud lille no?

What day is this? Thursday? Yeah. I think it’s Thursday. Is this week taking forever, or is it just me?


I get good light in my little millhouse, which houses Milhous. At my old house, I could never really see the sunrise or sunset, not to sound too Fiddler on the Roof about it.


But now in the morning I can see the sunrise from the back of the house, and at night the sunset at the front.


Why do I know those lyrics?

When I was in high school, my best friend was way into musicals. It was awful. I remember being at her house on summer afternoons and she’d play these horrendous musicals (redundant) on this tiny 1960s record player (her parents didn’t have a lot of money) and I’d have my Walkman on, listening to some ZZ Top.

I should probably not admit the ZZ Top part. She’s got legs. She knows how to use them.

Profound lyrics. I guess Paul McCartney’s wife would not appreciate those lyrics, but otherwise…

Anyway, maybe when I wasn’t going crazy for a sharp-dressed man some of those musicals seeped into my consciousness.

My best friend had the cutest parents. She’d been a surprise. Her brothers and sisters were like 10 years older and so on. So her parents had been in WWII. My GRANDPARENTS had been in WWII.

And oh my god, the food. Her mom made stuff from scratch every night. They canned things. And there was always too much, a thing I took advantage of forthwith. I was over there a lot, and my best friend’s brother and I would think of all the euphemisms for poop we could. You know I enjoy a poop joke.

Just the other week, when I was in Michigan, my Uncle Bill taught me UFO: unidentified floating object. See. Even as I write this, I am giggling like an idiot.

I am 53 years old.


And apparently, my inner adult, which rears its head nonce, is Pat Nixon. On the inside, I’m Pat Nixon. She was so dignified, standing there while her husband did that weird peace sign thing. She was so coiffed.

Maybe Pat Nixon is my spirit animal.

Oooo, that reminds me. Last night I dreamed foxes and bears were chasing me. I always got away, but at one point they caught a Lab, and the Lab’s owner wrestled the Lab away.

Interpretation, please. Thank you.

Today is my mammogram, and if you’ve been here for, you know, 11 years or anything, you know this is not my favorite. It’s not a day I anticipate, like, say, April Fool’s Day or something great like that.

I just wanna get in there, get m’test, get the letter saying all is well. That’s all I want. I tried to find a place that gives you same-day results, but there aren’t any locally.

Anyway, other than that, other than the part where I am horrified, nothing is new. Oooo, my new glasses get here today, but now that two weeks have passed since I ordered them, I hope they’re not too Elton John.

“Ten minutes at Elton John’s and you’re gay as a maypole.” Name that movie.

I gotta go to work. Pat Nixon didn’t have to work. I mean, she had to First Lady, but whatever. How hard is that?

So I’ll go. But I know. I’ll think of you each step of the wayyyyyy.

But before I go, I wanted to ask you: Is there anything from your past that you swear existed that no one else can remember? Like, the other day, when I mentioned my grandmother, I said in the comments that she had this souvenir, one of 3949492292040048344849293 knickknacks she owned.

It was a phoenix or a roadrunner. My uncle lived in Arizona and she’d visit. Anyway, it wasn’t very large, maybe the size of your hand. But you could open it up, and inside there was–I swear–a Native American wedding going on INSIDE THE BIRD, as you do. And I think the whole thing was sparkly inside.

I mean, she had this tchotchkec circa 1973 and I haven’t seen it since she died in 1985. But NO ONE remembers it but me.

I also swear there was a harmonica you could get at McDonald’s, shaped like a cheeseburger with a bite taken out of it. Can’t find it on the Google.

Am I making these up? Is Pat Nixon in there playing tricks on me? I don’t know.

Okay, officially late now.



Portret van June Gardens

I watch a lot of YouTube videos because any time I don’t know how to do something around the house, I just YouTube it. Once I watched a video titled, “How to take down a ceiling fan and replace it with a light,” and the whole video was a guy replacing a ceiling fan with another ceiling fan, and also not telling you to turn off the power first. So I’m not saying it’s always a stellar solution.

The point is, you’ve no idea how often YouTube tutorials start off, “Hey, guys.”

This makes me disproportionately furious. Hey, guys! Oh, shut up.

So, hello. Is what I’m saying. Hello. Is it me you’re looking for? …Why?

I thought I’d recap my weekend for you, which includes barf, so why did you come here, again?



On Friday night, because the world was my oyster and I’m living that swinging single life, I prepared my house to paint it Saturday morning. I’m not saying that I painted my house, just the living room. As I was moving shit around, I found this photo of me at a museum, lookin’ at a Calder. I guess this was before I figured out that modern art annoyed me.

I wonder if my parents went there to add to their collection of horrifically depressing art.

Anyway, I took pictures down, I filled nail holes, I scooched furniture, and generally by the end of it was in a mood. I believe I had popcorn for dinner and went to bed.

SATURDAY, or, if you’re something of an ass, CATURDAY

IMG_0122.jpegIMG_0120.jpegIMG_0132.jpegThe day dawned with Mr. Obsession obsessing over my every move while I tried to find the painter’s tape, the paint tray, the PAINT, the–OH MY GOD EDSEL GET A HOBBY.

Just when I said that, he came in here and began today’s baleful staring. I guess his hobby is whitening his face. Is he into kabuki theater, or what’s going on with that?

Dear June,
Maybe you could come up with a new line beyond that kabuki one.


Anyway, I’d like to tell you I went crazy with the before and afters, but I was busy. To sum it up, the walls were beige and now they’re Alabaster.

Ooooo, I forgot one crucial thing! Careful readers will recall that I always go to Sherwin Williams, namely because the whippersnapper of color who works there and seriously I think lives there is hot hot hotty hot hot. Oh my god. I can’t tell how old he is, but somewhere between Jail and I Should Be Ashamed.

On Friday, I strolled in there for drop cloths–and I guess I didn’t cover the TV or the terrible pink dresser and oh my god, let’s fix that dresser–but the POINT is, I walked in Friday and he said, “Heyyyy! I know you!”

I mean.

I know maybe it’s because I PAINT CONSTANTLY and am my own Eldon, but it was still exciting to be recognized by a hot whippersnapper.

I had to return there Saturday, or if you continue to be assy, Caturday, SANS makeup or shower or anything, and I prayed to god he’d have the day off but he LIVES there, I’m assuring you.

Anyway he was still nice to me even though our 70 years’ difference was incredibly apparent. Hey, Russel Crowe.

I was trying to think of someone who always looks puffy.

Hey, country guy who hosts that one talent show people think is cute but to me, he just looks like a guy I went to high school with that I run into at a bad bar.

What’s that guy’s name? I can see him but have no idea. Those talent shows do nothing for me. I enjoy highbrow entertainment such as The Real Housewives.

Anyway, here.

White living room, now with terrible pink dresser!

First of all, I’m tempted to just mount the TV. I’ve been single a long time. Bah. No, I mean, why do I need a whole clunky thing there anyway? But I need the dresser in general, cause I don’t know if you’ve creepy-crawled my place in your spare time, but it’s not what you’d call roomy.

What did mill workers in the ’30s do with all their DVDs and workout t-shirts? Which is what those drawers have. I wish I knew some, like, organizer, who could come make better use of my tiny space.

I wonder what she’d say about the 700 books in the kitchen cupboard.

Anyway, after the paint was dry and everything was put back, I went out for awhile, even had a glass of wine. And here’s my problem. I don’t drink much wine anymore because it’s Russian roulette for me. You never know when it’ll give me a migraine.


I woke up in the middle of the night, and man was I sick. I had a migraine, a bad one, and I was violently ill. Oh, it was not welcome news.

I had this friend who was on a dating site, and he’d dated this woman for a few weeks till he got a message ON THE DATING SITE, from the woman’s FIANCE. He said finding out they were dating was “not welcome news” and I always loved the understatedness of that term, despite the fucking stalking abilities of that fiance.

Ugh. In case you’re wondering, though, that Thayer’s Witch (soundths like I’m lithping) Hazel is good, but don’t do what I did and get it in cucumber scent. I wanted it to be that delightful fake cucumber but it smells like, you know, a cucumber.

I spent a great deal of Sunday recovering from that awfulness. The migraine, not the buying cucumber witch hazel.


Everyone was willing to lie around with me, and Edsel was able to meet his goal of staring at me for at least 70 hours this weekend.

Milhous: do she alwayz barf? Iris: fek off

Also, Sunday was Marvin-my-ex-husband’s birthday.


Finally, I rallied enough to go out and get a cheap throw for my new chair that the cats can’t seem to get enough of. Also, I got root spray because the last time I had my hair professionally colored was August, and I look like Shirley Maclaine in Terms of Endearment when Deborah Winger is dying.

Dear June:
Maybe you could get a new line for when your roots are bad.

Did anyone see D Winger being rude to Andy Cohen on Watch What Happens Live? Does she not realize the entire world is on his side?


Anyway, I also got new slippers, and on Instagram I wrote, “New slippers, who dis?” and fell in love with self all over again.

Then as the evening drew to a close I once again got out the Google Art app and someone needs to do an intervention. As usual, I was not pleased.


Goddammit (June-hair edition)

GODDAMMIT (Agnes Morehead as an old lady edition)

So I switched angles.

God. DAMN. IT.

I gotta update my profile.

More hilarious humor and toilet shots on the next Bye Bye June’s Book.

Keto, day four. Am I thin yet?

Oooo, man, I did NOT feel well yesterday. They warn you of this when you do the damn keto diet, that you might get what they call the keto flu. It’s when your body is switching over. For some reason your body gets annoyed.

I had a bad headache, I was exhausted, and most important: nauseated as hell. Not barf naus; the other kind. But I had read about this so I drank stupid bone broth and took some Advil and, most important,

Saying “most important” is big with me today.

I drank something I’d never in a million years have dranken: Powerade Zero. I’d never have dranken it, and June please keep saying that, because I abhor diet sodas. I think there is nothing I hate more than the taste of diet soda. Diet sodas make me shiver like a kitten when its formula is too cold.

Perhaps I should use a more universal simile.

But Powerade Zero I purchased, as it has no sugar or carbohydrates in it, but it replaces your electrons or your electoral college or something, and




I couldn’t believe how delicious. And most of the agony went away, although I could barely lift self off couch most of day.

But it did give me time to enjoy the following:

IMG_7912.jpgIMG_7876.jpgIMG_7925.jpgNow that the kittens are nearing six weeks, they can not only walk, which is better than I was doing yesterday and I’ve been alive 52 years, they can also run. I have toys in there for them, but most of the kittens also want to explore.

So when Steely Dan is out (Lily and Iris don’t care), I let one or a few out to explore. And since I was lying on the couch motionless yesterday (or dashing to the bathroom. That was my cardio), I got to observe Edsel the Kitten Prodigy.

If it’s a playful, curious kitten, he walks right up and sniffs it and lets it bat at him and so on. One of the kittens kept playing with his pointy old lady–looking feets, and Eds HATES his feet, his pointy old lady–looking feets, touched.

So every time the kitten would touch him, he’d do the gentlest jerk back with his foot, but he’d never leave. He’d just sit beleaguredly and jerk gently. So to speak.

But if it’s one of the more timid kittens, and I love how quickly they have teensy personalities, oh my god you should see him. He lies in the bed, unmoving, and follows the kitten with his eyes. His dog eyebrows move to and fro, and he stays as still as he can to not scare the kitten. Eventually, they all sniffed Eds and said, “o, dis dog totul wuss. thank bastet wee not puppees.”


Thank Bastet. Just when I thought love for self could not grow deeper, I pull self back in.

Anyway, clearly this dog has found his calling. I can’t believe how good he is with them. And he’s so proud of his dog self.

it edz calleeng

The other thing that happened yesterday, while I was here feeling horrific, was I went outside and sat listlessly on Peg’s Adirondack chair that she gave me. I was like what’s-her-name, in Beaches, when she’s near the end.


Anyway, there I was, nearing the end in my yard, when Lily, LILY, of all people, came running

I’ll give you a moment to gather yourself.

Lily came running across the yard, which is like watching Totie Fields do the 100-yard dash, and the reason she was running was not because I’d left potatoes au gratin on the other side but because she was chasing a mouse.

I will give you another moment to gather yourself. You’re all over the place. Clean it up.

The poor mouse, who can’t have been high on the survival instinct spectrum, given that he decided, oh, this house with


is the yard I’m going to summer in. Anyway, this mouse ran across the yard, with old John Tuxedo Tabby Belushi chasing after him, and he dove into a clump of foliage.

This was about the time I got my Barbara Seagull Hershey ass off the Adirondack chair and got the camera. For some reason Ned can never remember the name of those chairs, and he calls them hurricane chairs and now I almost do, too. He also recently insisted Edward R. Murrow’s sign-off line was, “Be careful.” “He wasn’t on Hill Street Blues, Ned,” I told him.

But I digress. Because here:

action shot

You’re gonna have to trust me that Lily was in that bush, and also so was a mouse. She was leaping and hopping on a moon shadow, and I don’t know what was taking her so long to just murder the damn thing.

wat all the hullbaloo?

But then Edsel caught on that there was drama in the bush, which ought to be my epitaph, so he wandered over to help.

Eds heer. you SO DED, mowse.

Eventually, I heard rustling in there that lead me to believe Lily got it. I didn’t dare go OVER there for fear it’d leap on me or something.

But then?

dane to come home. heer it actually intristing heer.

ware it be. steeeelee kill.

got steelee mind on steeelee murder and steeelee murder on steelee mind

Lily: goddammits. Why you let Steelee rooon?

But, given that SD quickly lost interest, I can only surmise mouse was taken care of already. By Lily. That or it escaped and is telling all its mouse friends about its dreadful afternoon.

intrist wane.

So I got to see that unfold, like I’m a photographer in the wild. Like I work on Wild Kingdom or something.

Tonight, a coworker is having a party and I’ll be there with my delicious flavored water, and parTAY. The roof, the roof, the roof is, well, it’s just fine. Thank heavens, because who can afford a new one?

Then tomorrow I take Josie and the Pussycats, here, to the shelter for a checkup and their shots. It is just now dawning on me that I have to wrangle eight cats into a carrier. Hey, relaxing.

Maybe Edsel can help me wrangle. Maybe he’s like a kitten Border Collie. With his borderline personality.

Further reports as developments warrant,

In which aspic is mentioned

When we left each other yesterday, slamming the door and saying, “IT’S OVER! I MEAN IT THIS TIME!”, I was going to try to come back here and write you at lunch.

That didn’t happen. Work. Tis busy.

So here’s a two-day update on everything that’s happening in my stupid world. I wish to tell you about Ned and Nancy, my broken toe (surprise!), stupid cosmetic things I did and also Steely Dan’s shenanigans. This is like when you go to a fancy event and they show you a little menu of what you’re getting.


Fresh radishes
Liverwurst finger sandwiches

No, I don’t know what kind of horrific imaginary fancy events I attend, either.

Ned & Nancy. An update.

I wanted to give you a visual, here, so I went to my pictures and searched, “cat,” and then my computer carried on with the guffawing. “Oh, THAT’S specific, June,” it said, as my computer is actually some kind of talking sarcastic animal like on The Flintstones.

IMG_4112.jpgHere. And lose the attitude, computer.

As you know–because for generations, your family will be gathering to tell my stories–Ned adopted Nancy, my foster cat. What with the losing her kittens and the going back to the shelter to get spayed and having a terrible time with her operation and possibly with being feral, she got to Ned’s and was not pooping in her box. Like, she was pooping all over yonder, including her food dish.

Ned did everything, seriously everything, so stop “Did he…”-ing me. The vet suggested he confine poor Nancy–which I just wrote as “poop Nancy”–to one small room, and leave her in there.

Guess what. It worked. It took several days, but for the past FOUR days, she has gone exclusively in her box. Ned is encouraged. “This weekend, I’ll move her up to the computer room,” said Ned. He gave Nancy a promotion.

Toe. An update.

As you know, because for generations your family will–oh, stop, June. M’toe is broken.

Yesterday, my doctor-recommended hard-soled shoes came. I worked from home yesterday, because I never thought about it much till it HURT, but it’s a long damn-ass walk from the parking lot to my actual desk, and it involves stairs, and ouch.

So I propped my foot yesterday, I was in the props department, and then when my shoes came, I hobbled to the door to receive them. It was like shoe communion.

Screen Shot 2018-02-21 at 7.59.15 AM

There they were. All flowered and shit.


I can’t wear them. I can’t get my foot in that little hole. I mean, I forced myself into said shoe like a wicked stepsister, and then it hurt worse once it was in there. So this weekend, Ima have to hobble over to DSW and look for something clog-ish.


Also, the part where it was almost evening and I was putting on shoes sent Edsel into fits of WE GONNA WALK joy, and I had to crush his dreams rather testily, as I was in pain and he was IRKING me.

Also, this morning, I was drying off after showering

(I’ll give you a moment to stop being turned on.)


and as I was drying off, I half paid attention (my epitaph) and sort of told myself, Remember your big toe is broken when of course




So now it hurts even more.

And, scene.

June’s a grooming asshole. An update.

Recently, I noted that there are many cute local stores and boutiques near me that I never go into. I always breeze past them as I’m on my way to get something else, usually a sandwich. There’s one sandwich place that’s been there since 1977 and they’ve updated the decor not at all, and I’m deeply in love with the whole atmosphere. I feel like I should be in there with my rainbow jeans and my Bass 100s.

Anyway, a few Saturdays back I decided to spend the whole day just popping into all those shops I never go in, and that is how I discovered the grooming place.

They might as well rename themselves June Store.

They do Botox and microdermabrasion, facial peels and makeup. They do manicures and waxing, they do all the shit I blow all my money on. I was there, innocently getting Botox when I found myself signing up for eyelash extensions.


It takes more than an hour, as you lie there and talk to a woman who sounds precisely like my pal Alicia, who is painstakingly attaching eyelashes to your lid, one by one. It lasts about a month–you’re supposed to go back and get touchups.

goddamn nose

But the thing is, they mostly all fell out. And I was all, Well, THAT was a bust, but in fact they texted me to ask how my lashes were working out. And that is the kind of person I am. I get texts asking, How are your lashes working out?

Anyway I told them and they’re redoing them all for free.

The interesting thing, and I may be alone in placing this under the category of “interesting,” is that you’re not allowed to wear mascara with these on, and as these are falling out I’m still not using mascara, because rule-follower.

The point is, I can see my real lashes now, and this is the longest I’ve ever gone without mascara since I’m 24 and went through a hippie phase. I mean, allegedly I take my mascara off, but those of you who groom know it’s never really off. There are always remenenenenants.

My friend’s grandmother could never say that word, so now I can’t NOT say “remenenenants” as well.

THE POINT IS, it’s really off. I mean, I have no mascara on these lashes. And what a set of namby-pamby Melanie Wilkes lashes these are. Holy cats. Why do I have to have seven pounds of hair and caterpillar brows and if I don’t shave my legs every morning I’m Zira from Planet of the Apes but my eyelashes?

NO! Fine and blonde, those are.


…Oh, right. Yes, I’d forgotten that. …Oh, that too? You’re still pissed about that? Geez.


I see I’ve run out of time to tell you about Steely Dan, but I think you and I both know it would go like this:

SD is an asshole. We all love him for it.

The end.

To Reader. Love Always, June

51JRcnwcwyL.jpg“I’m just calling to let you know the Russell Stover eggs are available,” I said to my mother, although in truth it was more: “Uh ussel oer eggs are aaailul.” As I was, of course, already eating mine as I pulled out the Rite Aid, there.

“I have four in my cupboard already,” said my mother, and it must be genetics that make those stubborn pounds stay on.

I’d gone to Rite Aid because I’m a glamor girl whose real-life adventures are not to be believed, but also because my coworker, Lottie Blanco, had brought me some soup that her wife, Lottie Blanco, had made, and




and I wanted to put something in the soup container when I returned it, to be a nice person. Yes, I did just feel that shift in the universe. Anyway, I thought candy would be sweet


so I went to the Rite Aid. Which takes fewer steps for the parking and the hobbling to the door, because in case you forgot, my toe is broken.

Oh, and speaking of which, speaking of my major injury, the doctor told me I had to wear hard-soled shoes, and this is where we left off yesterday, promising to write and leaving each other with framed photos of ourselves. “To Reader. Love always, June.”

downloadThe cute pottery-making-lesbian-folk-dancer shoes I’d planned to buy, that I showed you yesterday as you slipped your 8×10 colorized photo into a frame for me, were, in fact, not going to be available till MARCH FUCKING 8, and by then I will be over the novelty of my broken toe and onto something else.

Screen Shot 2018-02-21 at 7.59.15 AM.pngSo I got these Doc Martens instead. Aren’t they MAGNIFICENT? They will be here tomorrow. Oh my god, I will never be sad again.

…Good lord. Here I am, tryina have my morning and write to you about all the pressing news of the day, and I keep getting “Can you do this today?!?” emails from work. I worked last night, as well. What’s with the busy all of a sudden?

So I guess I’d better wrap this up early, so I can hobble to work, but I wanted to mention something that dawned on me: My grandmother–the nice one, not the one I turned into–was widowed when she was my age.

And she never dated again.

Maybe that’s me. Maybe I’m gramma. Maybe my days will be filled with having my grandchildren over, sewing and crocheting. Making big dinners that involve boiling potatoes.

…Oh. Well, crap. Hey, I can at least boil potatoes.

Anyway, it’s weird to think about, because at the time it never dawned on me that she’d want to get on a 1969 version of Match dot…well, there was no com. What the fuck does “com” mean, anyway? Communications? Commoner? Composed? Book of June dot commoner. No, I have NOT taken my Ritalin yet. Why?

The point is, maybe if there’d been online dating, she’d have been all over that.

“Five-two, brown hair that won’t go gray and why didn’t my granddaughter inherit THAT, loves Days of Our Lives, Cremora and covers for the Kleenex.”

f58da13663db52db04529696367ae7b4--tissue-box-covers-tissue-boxes.jpgBut I don’t think so. I think she was pretty much over men. And maybe I’m following in her arthritic footsteps. See, I DID inherit her knee arthritis.

Speaking of which, my elbow hurts like a motherfucker all the time now. I know I have a trapped ulnar nerve. I mean, I say I know that because I am a medical professional, and by “medical professional” I mean I Googled it.

And I do the exercises I find online, but I don’t see much change. You’d think with all the solid scientifically proven medical attention I’ve paid to this injury that it would be improving. I guess I could phone my beleaguered doctor, who’s probably already worried sick about how many ToeGate phone calls he’s going to receive.

All right, I’m out of here. Off to copy edit something.




Hang on. I gotta strap on Laila Ali first…

Photo on 2-19-18 at 7.57 AM.jpg
One of my more awful readers once looked at a photo of me sans makeup and wrote, “Is that rosacea?” It is. Mild case. Here’s MY comment: Is that a jerk whose ass would make me a Sunday face®* commenting? (*(C) My gramma. All rights reserved.)

Say, June, weren’t you drying your hair LAST time we talked?

Yes. Yes, I was. Hygiene. It’s repetitive.

Anyway, we haven’t talked since Friday and we have a lot of topics to cover, so I thought today I’d use subheads, so you don’t end up with fucking whiplash while I bounce from topic to topic. We’re going to be organized today.

Shut up.

Okay, topic one.

Wee wee wee, or the F word
I don’t want you to worry or anything. I don’t want a fuss.
Shut up shuttin’ up.

But I BROKE MY TOE. The little one. Last night, I was headed to bed, like a normal person, and BOOM, Lottie’s bone, this big giant lug of a bone–that Edsel unearthed recently–was in the middle of the room and I didn’t see it and




something was very wrong. I yelled so loudly that Edsel stood under the table. Which, by the way, we can still see you, Letter C.

not to yell, mom. make edz curl up.

But speaking of Edsel, it’s weird, because just yesterday afternoon I was walking that cur and we passed the yard where I sprained my ankle four years ago, and I thought about how as soon as I landed on that grass, that grassy knoll–what IS a knoll?–I knew I’d really hurt myself badly. I reflected on that the rest of the walk: What a brave faithful dog Edsel was that day, not leaving my side even though I’d dropped the leash. Tall Boy, who isn’t allowed to talk to me now that he’s married, driving down and lifting me into the car. Because he was staying with me at the time. PLATONICALLY.

Anyway, I worried last night that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, it hurt so fucking much, but I did because I’m Jabba the Hut. I can sleep through anything. I actually have no idea if Jabba the Hut sleeps, as I have not seen any of the Star Wars movies since the first one in 1977. But he strikes me as lazy.

So my plan is to hobble. And complain. That wraps up what Ima do for my broken toe. Doctors can’t do much for it, I already know this. And yes, I know it’s broken. I’ll spare you the details.

Last week, I was reading some article or another and I found a site called Trim. And no, I did not just link you to a site involving lady bits. Trim can tell you all the stupid things you’re subscribed to, that you may have forgotten about, and they’ll also do things like contact AT&T and say, “Lower her bill.”

As of last week, I quit Stitch Fix (I’d already quit that the week earlier, technically), Weight Watchers, Netflix, Amazon Prime, some support group for other anxious attachers that I joined for $21 a month, HBO, Apple Music and other annoying things I was paying for automatically and not noticing.

It is likely I will lose my mind and rejoin some of those, but for now, nobody is automatically taking anything from my account each month except for my car insurance.

But speaking of money and trim, I came up with an idea yesterday that I presented on Facebook to mixed results.

I had an idea for how I could lose weight OR you would make money. We’d have to have someone hold all the money, maybe send it all to Faithful Reader Paula or something, and I like how I’ve roped her into this without asking, but here is my idea:

I tell you my current horrifying weight and my goal weight. Which believe it or not are not the same. And then I set a date for me to REACH that weight. All of you put $5 in, and if I reach the goal, I get your hard-earned $5.

But if I FAIL to reach it, I not only give you your $5 back, I pay you an additional $5.

Then I have two incentives: To get rich (okay, to get maybe $50) and to not lose money.

See? It’s a good idea! Some of you hated it, though. But those folks don’t have to play. Are you in?

Photos and so on
I’ve spent a great deal of time trying to get this one Golden Girls gif onto my blog, and never could, and does anyone know how to get a gif on your blog? If you tell me to place the embedded code in my HTML I will break your little toe.

My point is, I’ve used up a lot of my morning, and now I hafta go, and I know I have to tell you about m’chakras (my crown chakra was blocked. Now it isn’t) and about Ned and Nancy, but I have run out of the time.

Also, I took many photos this weekend. So here are some of those, and I will fill you in on the rest tomorrow. TUNE IN tomorrow for JUNE’S RIVETING LIFE, part 3,271.

(See. That’s how I run out of time. Because I just had to save this draft, leave this page, go figure out how to discover how many posts I’ve written in this life, then come back and write “3,271” so I’d be accurate.)


After spending all yesterday morning tryina figure out how I’d lose weight and make you all get involved, I drove to the country and got ice cream. Those stubborn pounds.


It’s a real dairy, and they make the ice cream on site.

IMG_5486.jpgThere used to be Border Collies there, but they got old and died. Welcome to my happy blog!

IMG_5465.jpgI also spent time with the demon cat.


I can’t help it. I LOVE HIM SO BAD.

oh, jeeebus, lady.

He did the thing again, though. I pulled up to my house just as my “you have a text” ding dinged. Come for the ice cream. Stay for the strong writing.

Anyway, it was my friend Sandy, wanting to embrace the Curly Girl method, and I wrote her back from my car, and when I looked up again…


He lives to startle me. He’s my Uncle Jim, in cat form.

“You no, other cat liff here, too. We just so tire.”

I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if I live through this toe pain. If I don’t get hooked on the horse to get me through.


Chubby stick

Does anyone recall, in your giant calendar of June events, back in September when I’d lost 10 pounds?

Do you remember that?

I went to the local Pride parade, and I was gonna carry a sign of my own that read, “Lost 10 pounds.” Do you remember that?

October 1 was when I had the latest Ned debacle, and since then I’ve gained it all the hell back.


So, tips, please. Diet tips.