June and the matador hair dryer

Before I begin today’s hard-hitting post, I know I asked everyone to send me photos of their favorite cup, and that I’d show all of them, but those “we sent a picture” things take a really long time to set up and I haven’t had the time and no one mention that I watched King Kong Skull Island followed by Godzilla this weekend.


Man, I’ll tell you what. I know I made the decision to not date for a while, till everything is good in my Ned-filled head, which may take the rest of my days, but let me tell you the truth: I pulled up to my house Friday night and could not make myself go in for the longest time. I stared at the front of my house and thought of all the hours I would try to fill all weekend and was sort of paralyzed.

Finally, I thought, “Oh, forge ahead, sister” and got inside, mostly because of Edsel, who I am convinced was twisting his doily at the window wondering when I’d come in. Every time I wander in it’s as though I’ve returned from a long bout at sea.


I didn’t stay home long, though. I went to First Friday, which is this thing they do in my town and probably yours, where the first, you know, Friday of every month all the galleries stay open late and they serve wine, which I didn’t have, and you can wander about looking snooty.

I rather liked this.

My work friend Frapdorp had a piece in this particular show (not the button star shown above) and when I got there it had already sold. “YOU’RE RICH!” I texted him.

I thought I’d run into a few people I knew at that thing, as last time I went it was a June-knowing extravaganza. But instead, it was just a bunch of fancy people I didn’t know. I got some appreciative looks from men who are 60, which seems to be my new demographic. Oh, sure, they’re allowed to ogle someone 7 years younger, but if I glance at a 46-year-old I get arrested. What the hell, society?

I also noticed a type that goes to these shows: the very skinny older art woman. There were several of them. I think they do pilates and wear natural fibers and eat once a week or something, and don’t get me wrong, I’d love to be the skinny older art woman. But maybe the 60-year-old-man, to whom I am apparently a dream girl, enjoys a woman with, I don’t know, more than flesh and sinew.

Anyway, it was all sort of fascinating and I went home when it looked like one man was going to home in on me, with his Jerry from The Bob Newhart Show perm.

“Oooo, can’t you see, June is the drug for me.”


On the way out, I noted this little studio that records your podcast for you, and sent a photo of this tout suite to my pal Wedding Alex, as we are thinking of making a podcast even though I hate them.

Do you know what else I hate? [Giant thud heard throughout the land as everyone gets out Volumes I–XIX of Things June Hates] Those homemade videos on Facebook, where some regular person is selling something. First of all, they always always always have to start out, “Hey, guys!”

Shut up.

Hey, guys!


Then they are never prepared. There’s one for a hair curler I keep seeing where she literally says, “Hey guys! …Hang on a minute.”

YOU JUST GOT HERE. You just started. Can you not have your props at the ready immediately? Did you just spontaneously decide to start recording and hold us all captive and THEN gather the things you want to sell?

There’s another one who keeps LOOKING for shit through her whole presentation, and she also gets a bobby pin, puts it in her mouth, which is disgusting, takes it out to look for something, then puts it back in, takes it out to ruffle around her desk and then finally says my most favorite thing:

“I’m a hot mess right now.”

Would you like to know what I hate?

[Thump. Volume XIX complete. Please begin Volume XX.]

“Hot mess.”


Anyway, our podcast. We’ve yet to actually get together and make any plans, but Wedding Alex is organized and three seconds after I sent her the picture above she wrote back with the prices and the particulars. Meanwhile, I’ve had your cup photos since the Truman administration.

On Saturday, I got up and cleaned, a new thing I do each weekend. I used to sort of haphazardly clean just whenever at my old house, but this one started OUT so pristine that I felt I had to keep it that way. I set my Google Home for an hour, and clean for at least that long but keep going if I feel like it.

Please tell me what cleaning products and tools you like thank you goodbye.

Then the mail came with the arrival of my Highlights Magazine that FR Paula sent me.

Bea needs to calm the eff down.

After my hard-hitting morning catching up on the news, and by the news I mean the latest with The Timbertoes, I shopped for nothing. I’m headed to Michigan soon and am saving my dollars for cat-sitting and gas and the dog-friendly hotel in West Virginia that’s an extra $50 a night for the dang dog. (I should have just put him in a little fedora and cape, see if I could get away with saying he’s a short man with unfortunate dental work.)

Naturally, I went to Sephora.

I like two things out of this list. Well, I guess sunshine isn’t bad. Gives you cancer, but so does happy hour.

By the way, who would look good in any of these colors? If I showed up at your place in sparkly turquoise eye shadow, would you not discuss the state of my mental health after I left?


This is my dream hair dryer. You know how Barbie has her dream house? And frankly she shoulda dreamed bigger. Bitch had a smokin’ body. She could have scored more than a split level.

Anyway, I want this dryer so bad I do but go ahead and Google that bitch. No, go ahead. You’re gonna die of death when you see how much it costs. It has a thermistor, whatever that is. Does it conquer your hair? No, that’s a conquistador. Does it keep it fresh, like a cigar? No, that’s a humidor. Does it fight bulls? No, that’s a matador. I give up.

Anyway, I want one. I looked at it longingly like the little straw-haired girl and went empty-handed to the kitchen store.

I like going to the kitchen store. I never went in there till my Aunt Mary came to visit and insisted. And then I was riveted.

Do you pour this on the beach, or…?
You use this during your sit-ups.


I think about being the type of person who cooks, and who has purple pots. I’d totally get the purple. I don’t know why.


At Christmas, I went to Chris and Lilly’s, and they gave me a bunch of really good soaps. Then after that there was a bar of strawberry-scented soap on the anyone-can-take-it table at work. It’s this weird soap/sponge combo. Anyway, I took it and made it my goal to not buy soap this year. I already broke it once when I went to the beach and forgot soap, but I found a bar for a dollar. So so far I’ve spent $1 on soap in 2019. I realize that’s an odd goal but it amuses me so shut up. The point is, I lusted for these so bad I did.

The store offers free coffee in these communion-size cups, so I took one and sat on a bench outside the store.


I do this about 46 times a week. I keep my camera on and take a picture of my shoe, or the sidewalk or my purse. Anyway, once I saw I’d done this, I took a real selfie right there in public.


I look high. I wasn’t. I was high on kitchen supplies.


Saturday night, I had dinner with my neighbors and afterward, we decided to see if we could all, including two large men, fit in my teensy car. We did it! We drove around like a clown car, two huge men popping out the convertible top like Dino. Getting OUT wasn’t so easy for them, as they opted for the back seat just to see if it was possible. “Let’s all drive to Michigan!” I said, but that did not happen.

Afterward, I enjoyed Milhous obsessing over the fly that was in our house. I thought of getting the flyswatter, but he had so much fun that I let him catch it, which he eventually did.

Then Sunday was sort of sad. My step-grandmother died. She was always so nice to me, and sent me a check every year on my birthday and always signed it, “Love, Grandma Agnes.” She was in her 90s and was not sick, so that’s good. Her funeral isn’t till July, and I won’t be able to go because I will be in Michigan right before that.

Death is stupid. Living far away is stupid.

Oh my god, I have droned on forever. Be sure to tell me about cleaning products. Talk at you tomorrow.

Hey guys,

In which June suggests it’s that time of the month for St. Francis

It’s Sunday night. Does 6:48 p.m. count as Sunday night? In 12 minutes, The Wonderful World of Disney would be coming on if this were real life, because 1973 is real life and I don’t know what the hell this is. Anyway, it would be coming on, and my mother would be preparing a Swanson’s TV dinner for me, and I’d mos def have the “It’s Sunday night” angst, so I say 6:48 p.m. counts as Sunday night.

If this were a Saturday at 6:48 p.m., it’d totally just be early evening.

Anyway, it’s Sunday and not 1973, and I do not have a Swanson’s dinner for myself.


Nor a Libbyland Sundown Supper, which I ate like it was good back then, and which I’m quite certain was devoid of the chemicals.

Seriously, what was WRONG with me? Why did I eagerly accept this slop? Is that a person’s liver? 

I did, however, just now prepare another large pot of pumpkin chili to last me this week, and I used Libby brand pumpkin, as it was on display at the Ghetto Lion grocery store I now go to in my new marginal hood. It was up there with the pie crust and whipped cream, and I suppose it’s someone’s whole job to make those little displays at the grocery store. “Here’s everything to make fruit salad.”

“Here’s all you need to make lasagna, in one convenient display.”

“Ass itch? Here are the ointments for you, plus a doughnut to sit on!”

They oughta have the “You’re single and you know it” display, where they sell 40s of malt liquor and Mallowmars. Videotapes of Sleepless in Seattle.

Anyway, last Thursday night, we had our work Christmas party.

“Yes, June, you already told us about that.”

No, I didn’t. That was the work Christmas party for the whole office. THIS was the work Christmas party for my department. The creative department. We’re the creatives. How much do you suppose everyone else hates our Fame, I’m Gonna Live Forever guts? Like, how annoying does accounting think we are, do you think?

IMG_0891.jpegWe had the party at a gallery downtown. So you could eat and drink, but then also shop for shit. In all, a perfect way to have a party.

And, like, let’s say all of a sudden you’re becoming an introvert when your whole life you were an extrovert and you’re all, Maybe she’s born with it, Maybe it’s clinical depression. You don’t know. All you know is everything is different all of a sudden. Let’s say the idea of going out now repels you when it used to compel you.

IMG_0889.jpegBut look! Here’s a party where you can leave the crowd and sniff soap!

IMG_0922.jpegAlso, I got to wander off with Lottie Blanco and Jane West, who every time we came across a gaudy sparkly item, they would say, “This looks like you, June.”

Hmpf. (Secretly wanted every sparkly gaudy item.)

Blue Moon. I saw you looking like the back of a bottlecap.

Anyway, eventually, I got into the swing of things. Then went home and crawled into ball for 72 hours.

Actually, I pretty much did. I went to work Friday, but awoke with a migrane that day. I blamed it on the




of wine I had Thursday. I really cannot drink at all anymore. Not even a drop. I get a migraine every time. I took a pill and the headache went away, mostly.

So then I ended up working late, and coming home and wisely having Chinese, which, by the way…

IMG_0996.jpeg…this can’t be good. Right? I mean, it’s been nice knowin’ ya.

Anyway, I went to bed at a reasonable hour and woke up Saturday with


migraine. Oh my god. It lasted ALL DAY. I stayed in bed all day long. I got up only to let the dog out and slap pet food in bowls.

IMG_0943.jpegThis gave the animals ample opportunity to observe me. I swear they have to report back to some sort of headquarters.

Edz calleeng Orson. Come ins, Orson.
Diss def nit lee go in report.
Eyeriss can’t see a fekking theng.

And because I know that EVEN WITH a 24-hour MIGRAINE I managed to photograph three of the pets, SOMEone will still be all, “Where’s Lily?”

Lillee a mom now. Go ‘way.

I think she loves Milhous.

Anyway, then today I had to cram in all the errands I meant to run all weekend into ONE DAY, and here it is now 7:08 p.m. and I’m all, Can I just get to the part where I can lie around and enjoy my own self today?

So Ima wrap this up, but before I can lie around and watch Poldark like it’s good, which it’s not but now I have to know what happens–though really I don’t care what happens, I just kind of want Poldark to take off his shirt. Before any of that, Ima make some avocado salad dressing that I read about that sounds good.

What you’re gonna wanna do is not add cilantro to that recipe. Because cilantro can suck it.

I don’t KNOW what’s up with me and the actual cooking lately. I’m like Rachel — no, I can’t even say that about myself. I love self too much to E-V-O-go there.

IMG_0990.jpegI leave you with this squirrel standing on St. Francis’s head, a thing St. Francis probably liked, unless he’s on the rag or had to get a lot done or something, in which case he’s probably all, Goddammit.

Yew going to hell wif mom, milhows.


June awaits more photos, describes her Thanksgiving. June bores the crap out of all and sundry.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. Thank you, good night!

I had dinner with The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her well-appointed spouse. And their dogs. And their millennial friends, who always seem to be more mature than I was at that age, and I know that’s a stretch to imagine.

But before that, I have a friend who was going through some shit and didn’t have Thanksgiving plans. 

“Are you planning to spend the day crying like a little bitch?” I asked, because I’m a sensitive person. Hey, June, you still answering phones at the crisis line?

He said it was more likely he was going to make a TV dinner with turkey in it, which made me cry like a little bitch, so we decided to get together for part of the day. “I’m up for anything,” he said, and the first idea that came out of my head was to have crackers at the cemetery.

“Plus whiskey,” he said, so after a morning of enjoying my not-at-all chaotic home, 

off we went.


As usual, there was plenty to enjoy at the cemetery. And it was a beautiful fall day. Perfect for whiskey and/or crackers.

It’s good to go to the cemetery with someone as awful as you. We passed a huge tombstone with the name Clap. “Well, that’s unfortunate,” said my friend. “Here lies Jebediah Chlamydia. “


I don’t know why that tickled me so, other than Jackie Kennedy and I share a sense of humor, but that was killing me, so to speak. I could barely contain my crackers.

I think my favorite thing at the cemetery was this headless child with a headless rocking horse.

Okay, you want to know what’s creepy? It took me FOREVER to add those photos. They wouldn’t upload no matter what. Finally, I got this little note from WordPress saying I was out of room and needed to “upgrade” my account in order to ever add another photo to this site ever again. So I just paid


for a business account here for the year. Do you think the headless child is pissed? Do you think my having to cough up that dough went to her…head?

Anyway, sorry. Here. I know it’s a bad time for this…

Back to being a bad person…

Poor Oprah

There. Holiday spirit, complete.

Anyway, after the cemetery, we retired to my house to look at pictures of people we don’t know, because believe it or not I’ve found someone else who collects them.

Traditional Thanksgiving tableau

And then I had to go to my actual dinner.


The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her spouse are the ones who own that really great B&B in town.


Everyone was busy with the preparations when I got to their house, and thank heavens I arrived to tie on an apron and really pitch in.

Mostly I walked around and took pictures of myself. Welcome, guest!


The Other Copy Editor, fmr., and her husband are the kind of people who actually have crystal decanters for their liquor, like soap opera people.

Fuck yeah
Fuck yeah, part deux.

I’m having the worst time adding captions today, and I sure am glad I just spent $204 on this site.

IMG_0356.jpegI brought lame bread and cheese, and why does anyone invite me anywhere?

Y U heer?

Everything was delicious, but do you want to know my favorite part?


TOCE, fmr., made her grandmother’s Jello recipe, which called for green Jello, pears, cream cheese and…was that it? No! Cool Whip! And 




“This tastes like the color green,” I said, and that is how I got my greens at Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, your photos are coming in. I’d rather forgotten I’d asked, so you can imagine my surprise yesterday when I had 20 messages on my blog email and hadn’t blogged. Again, email me

  1. Your photo from Thanksgiving
  2. Using the subject THANKSGIVING in your email
  3. Tell me your name or your blog name
  4. And where you are geographically, not “the dining room.”

I guess I should give a deadline. Let’s say 6 p.m. Eastern, Sunday, so I have time to write the post after. These take forever to post, so I can’t make exceptions. Seriously, they take like three hours to write. 

But I like getting everyone’s photos. When a new email comes, I’m all, Ooooo! Paula H&B already sent hers. ALL the cool people are doing it.

I’m celebrating Black Friday by getting cat litter. It’s a festive time here at House O’Juan.


Oh, you know. Just cats, The Simpsons, and blender-licking.

You’d think Lily would bite his face off. But needy. Both of ’em.

Some nights, Edsel is just too much. With the flumping dramatically off the bed whenever I move a corpuscle. Then floomping back on a minute later. With the pressing his head on my neck as hard as he can, for pets. At 4 a.m.

So some nights I kick him out. Last night was one of those nights.

But I let Lily stay, which I rarely do, and last night I was reminded why.

Good lord. This cat has some sort of disorder. Some sort of friendliness disorder. You don’t get a cat so it’ll be friendly. You get a cat so it can lie sleekly across the room and glare at you.

“Yes, I’d like to return this cat? Yes, I do have my receipt, hang on. …Well, she’s too friendly. Something’s broken. She needs her bitch meter turned up.”

She constantly–CONSTANTLY!!–pushes her head into your hand. You have no idea how hard a cat can push her head into you till you’ve dealt with this one.

fek yew

Actual, unretouched photo of Lily right this minute, making an elusive trip to the food bowl.

Meanwhile, in the back of my ranch, Edsel was left to his own devices. When I got up this morning, I saw he’d taken my robe to the couch and slept with it. So now I have to walk through this life knowing Edsel sobbed into my robe all night.

fuk yew mean it

I just noticed that Lily has moved on to Iris’s dish.

And while nothing is more interesting than hearing about someone’s pets, let’s move on to talk about someone’s work. Wooo! Lemme get more coffee, June.

Busy, is what it was. I literally got 11 hours’ worth of work done in 8 yesterday, and also my blog post was published, the one I was kvetching about doing yesterday. So that was active. After work, I got my hair done because I was shooting moonbeams out my head and not in the good way. What roots?

I should just give up and go gray. If I didn’t dye my hair and didn’t get Botox, I’d save approximately 12 million dollars a month. But I’d look like hell and hate myself. But, see, I already look like hell and hate myself, just underneath “blonde” hair. I should just officially give up and embrace my inner old lady. Which is getting more and more to be my outer old lady.

One day I will look back at photos from this time and think, “I was so young!” That’s depressing.

You know, from age 12 on, I was under the misguided impression that beauty was just around the corner. That I’d just have to get through this one awkward stage and there it would be: my peak of looks. Except that never happened and I spent my whole life looking eh. Eh, she’s all right.

And now I’m on the downward spiral of age and it isn’t going to get better. Although do you watch the Real Housewives? How can you read this blog and not watch the Real Housewives, is what I wanna know. Anyway, Kyle looks particularly good this season, and not fake, either. So if I become a millionaire, maybe then I’ll start an upward spiral.

Speaking of which, I won a dollar playing instant lottery this week. Do you recall, in your Big Book of June Events, that on January 1 I won $100? And I was all, “It’s gonna be MY YEAR!”?

Turns out, it was really everyone’s year and not just mine.

Still, I hadn’t bought a lottery ticket since and the other day I had a dollar so I went to town on the machine at the grocery store and boom. Dollar. Clearly I am on some kind of streak. When I return to the grocery store–

and here is the part where my mother is shocked that two days have gone by since I last went. “Make a list, honey.” But really, what else have I got to do?

Anyway, next time I go to the store I will buy another lottery ticket with my last one, and this is how they get you hooked. Next thing you know, I’m Marge Simpson at the casino.Simpsons_05_10.jpgRemember when she got hooked on the gambling? What do you mean, you didn’t catch that episode in 29 years of that being a show? Is The Simpsons still on?

To be fair, I’ve never once watched an episode of Gunsmoke, which is the second-longest-running show after The Simpsons. But to be fairer, I was a zygote when that show started, and also, who wants to watch a Western?

There is nothing that will make me change a channel quicker than a Western. My grandmother was forever watching Westerns like they were good. Oh, look. A cactus. And a bar. And someone shooting someone. Say, is that an Indian?


Plus also, anything having to do with the courts or justice or law or murder mysteries. I just don’t care. I read some Agatha Christie when I was a kid because my Aunt Kathy loved then, and what I liked about them was her Britishness. I wanted to hear how she made a spot of tea. I didn’t care who lay prone in the drawing room.

So what I’m saying is, I have also never watched those Law and Onions or whatever they’re called. And those Murder, SUV or whatever. Of course, now I have no TV, so I watch nothing except binges of the Real Housewives, which is good because it’s reality, everyone. I only watch what’s real.

But truth be told, and pull up a chair cause I’m ’bout to tell you a shameful secret. Truth be told, those housewives shows are getting old. It’s the same thing over and over. Someone gets offended and then 8 episodes are devoted to the one woman saying. “We need to talk about how offended I was” and then they offend each other anew, or a new person gets mad, and really in the grand scheme, hoooo care. I just like to see when they pop into the plastic surgeon for a spot of collagen or when they show us how much they spent when they go shopping together. Whoever thought to always show us the cash register at the end is a brilliant person.

Also, Philip Roth died. Did you hear? I’ll bet he was a real fan of the Real Housewives.

All right, I gotta go. I realize this was a pressing post, but oh! My smoothies come today!


I don’t know how I got to be part of this demographic, but on Instagram I keep getting the same ad, where this hot young girl in her 20s lives in this million-dollar clearly NY apartment and she gets up every day and inexplicably rubs her lips in her bathroom mirror. “Every morning, I do what I gotta do,” she begins, and apparently that involves rubbing her lips. And she looks good doing it. I’d look like I had a nervous tic.

“Then I have one of my smoothies. It feels like I’m doing something naughty.”

See. That’s how hot 20-year-olds think. I’ll show you something naughty, you vanilla whippersnapper.

Anyway, then she gets this delicious-looking smoothie out her freezer, and she makes it in a fancy blender, and then





and manages to look adorable doing it. Then she kisses her teensy shitty little dog and leaves.

June. Losing readers with shitty small dogs, since 2018. Just get a cat if you need such a purse-sized dog. See above about what a pleasure cats are.

The point is, I watched this ad until I became convinced that if I just got these smoothies, my life would be transfigured and I would be cute and hot and living in New York with a nervous dog the size of a button. Hashtag goals.

I hope that model isn’t real and that that’s not her real dog, cause then I would feel bad. I guess that shitty small dog is someone’s dog, right?

MY POINT is that I signed up to get these smoothies, and allegedly here is a referral link that means you get three free cups and I do, too. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you have to buy some, too. You’ll be stunned to hear I didn’t take time to read all about it.

I’ll report back to you on if they’re good. You can choose what kind of benefits you want and they adjust the ingredients accordingly. I chose beautifying, because I want to be 20 and a millionaire.


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.



Because Prosecco

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fuk yuu, laydeee. you fekkin timber tow.

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

You really are, June.

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

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

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

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

Yule see me later.


June blogs from the guest bedroom

Kim Jong-il in da house.

“So where all have you gone since you’ve been back in Saginaw? Which bars?”


I’m 52. People keep asking me all about the nightlife I’m experiencing here in the mecca of nightlife that is Saginaw, Michigan, and so far my answer continues to be, I’m 52. Show me that bar scene! Fifty-two-year-old, tearin’ up mid-Michigan!

So it appears that it’s Thanksgiving, or it was, anyway. My Uncle Bill, seen here kibitzing with my stepfather who is a saint, got here early to bring a roaster and also too the turkey, which was convenient. Then it was ready before everything else and every time I looked over at my Uncle Bill, he was eating that damn turkey. By the time dinner was served, there were merely the picked-clean bones left by Uncle Vulture.

Speaking of people my Aunt Kathy has been married to, my Uncle Leo also arrived, with sweet potatoes. My mother somehow scammed all the men into cooking, with her ERA bumper stickers and her consciousness raising and so on. We were all very Free to be You and Me at House of Family of June today.

Dooooods. I so totally wanted to insert an Amazon link right here (for Free to be You and Me, of course), because it’s Thanksgiving, and you’ll be shopping soon, and what a fine time to remind everyone I have an Amazon link. But apparently I can’t do that from my phone. Remember there are links to Amazon on the sides and bottom of my page. I am a terrible marketer.

You really are.

Aunt Kathy made pie, and also a salad with walnuts and apples in it, which was delicious. Mostly my part was I ate things, and got in the way, and kissed Gus.

Finally, it was time to eat, and my mother and I had to sit at the kid table while the adults talked stock markets and war. I’ve really no idea what adults talk about.

I took selfies after we ate, like I was Kim Kardashian. Kim Kar-sit-ian.

Uncle Leo and me.

Aunt K and mom and, you know, me.

Mom’s friend Gwen and oh look. Me.

Gwen is an excellent audience. She laughs at all my lines, whereas the rest of my family is over me.

After dinner, my Uncle Leo and Gwen and I were in the kitchen, and my Uncle Leo set up the scene for what looked to be a very long story. He started talking about his family history, and who begat whom, starting from when his family were cave people and so on, and then he paused and asked, “What story was I going to tell?”

And that sums up my family.

Gus not no you peeple.

The evening was drawing to a close and everybody was getting their coats off of my bed, because God forbid I have a room of my own, and someone asked, “So, you going out dancing tonight?”

I’M 52!!!! I’d break a hip. Going out dancing. Who am I, Lola the Showgirl?

Dood get lyfe

So that was Thanksgiving ’78 or whatever year this is. I’d stay and talk but I gotta pop a coupla mollies and hit a rave.

Go buy things via Amazon.

Love, 52

I’m in my prime. You are too.

First of all, before we all up and forget, it’s Steely Dan’s birthday. He is one, according to the estimated birth date the vet gave him back when I first brought him in. I would take a picture of old Steely Dan, but he’s outside tripping the elderly or whatever the hell. Continue reading I’m in my prime. You are too.