June gets murdered up.

Friday night here in Greensboro was a wet affair. It was exactly how fall nights should be: windy, occasionally rainy, the damp leaves shivering on the trees.

I was acutely aware of the night, because I was sitting silently in my house, catching up on some freelance editing. I’ve had freelance work almost every single day this year, a fact that is reflected in both my credit rating (yay) and cuticles (nay). My scores are up but my nails are shredded.

It’s not a stressful task, but you do have to give the work your total concentration, which is why I was so annoyed when I started to hear the singing.

“Wheel in the sky keeps on turnin’.'”

I looked up from my papers.

“Don’t know where I’ll be tomORRRRRoowwww.”

Well. That was a drunk person. And it sounded like he was really close by. I figured it was some kid walking by. He sounded young. He sounded like a young white kid, probably went to a football game at the high school, maybe was walking back. I can assure you I never once left a high school football game sober, back in my day. Probably left singing Wheel in the Sky, as well.

“Carry on my wayward sonnnnn. There’ll be peace when you are done.”


I had just gotten back into my work when another song started up. Edsel lifted his head from his bed.

Hrrrrr,” said Edsel, his neck getting all dinosaur-y. Whenever he’s pissed off, the first hackle to rise is the neck hackle-dy area. If he’s infuriated, a whole line of fur rises up along his spine, and he looks just like a

just like a

oh, that one kind of dinosaur. With the hackles.

Anyway, that bothered me. The hrrrrrr did. Usually Eds is indifferent to noises like that, unless said person making noise has the nerve to be singing with a dog, like if Mr. Bojangles walked by or what have you.

The guy was singing way, way off key, and as I said before, drunkenly. And he wasn’t moving from his spot right outside my house. I tried the peephole on my door, which somehow renders everything outside 10 times darker than it is anyway, and a rainy fall night isn’t what you’d call full of the light as it is.

So, annoyed, I decided to whip open my door and glare out of it. That’d show him.

“Don’t know where I’ll be tomorrrrroowwwwwww.”

I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him. He was close by, like maybe across the street.

“Wheel in the sky…”


Was he just walking toward me? Did it sound like he was coming closer, with this bad singing and his classic rock? Was he headed OVER HERE?

“Hrrrrrrr, wowww wow!” Edsel started to bark.

And that is when I called 9-1-1.

Look, I know it was a tad hysterical. But it was so fucking creepy. He’d been out there singing for at least 10 minutes, not moving, and then when I opened the door, it sounded like he’d started walking over.

“9-1-1, hello, June. Did you try that new curly girl product I told you about last time?”

“Heh. Yeah, hey, Edna. Listen, I know this sounds insane, but…”

I told the 9-1-1 operator my tale of woe. She sounded bored and said they’d send someone out as soon as they could. And see, once? I accidentally and wish I hadn’t? Listened to this terrible 9-1-1 call, where and old lady called because someone had come to her door asking for someone who didn’t live there, and it didn’t sit right with her, it seemed odd, and you’re listening to this thing thinking, Get a life, old lady, kind of like what you’re thinking reading this.

And then? There’s a clunk in the recording?

AND ALL YOU HEAR ARE THE OLD LADY’S SCREAMS. That guy at the door came in and murdered her. For no reason. As opposed to all the valid reasons to murder an old woman.

This is what I was thinking of when the bored operator hung up. “You’re just being silly,” I told myself, trying not to observe Edsel’s hackle sitch, over there.

Hrrrrrrr,” said Edsel, jumping off the chair and running to the back door.

And that is when my back door opened.

CALL NED CALL NED CALL NED CALL NED, my innards were screeching at me. For years now, any time there’s been a major emergency, such as a cockroach on the wall, I have called Ned, who is literally four minutes away and who loved screaming over to rescue me.

I did not call Ned. Please see above references to strong black woman.

I did, however, call 9-1-1. I was already picturing my YouTube recordings, where the first time I sound fairly alarmed and the second one I am a screeching wet hen.


“Okay, ma’am, your address?”

Don’t they keep a LOG or something? The second operator had no idea I’d just called. I figured once my number came up it’d give a whole history.


Well, she was married to Marvin, and back then she called 9-1-1 when her dog had cornered a possum. But then they divorced, and…

The operator stayed on the line with me till the policeman came. I saw him wandering my yard before he knocked, shining his flashlight everywhere like at the beginning of Columbo. He was probably looking for my current cultural references.

My point is, he and I searched everywhere, and found nothing. “Did your motion sensor come on?” he wanted to know. I have no idea. I was too busy having ice needles in my anus to notice my lights.

We searched high and low, and there was no evidence anyone had been over, other than me hearing my fekking back door open. The cop clearly thought I was insane, which, come on.

He bid me a good night, and drove off into the wet fall night.

The singing had completely stopped.

June starts out normal, then gets pretty kvetchy at the end

An old boyfriend of mine–from way back in the '90s when we wore clunky black shoes like it was sexy–went on a trip out west recently, and as a result has been showing photos on Facebook. "It's like a new version of making someone watch your vacation slides," he said.

The point is, he showed a photo of a bobcat, in which he said, "Here's a bobcat. Or a Robert Feline, in more formal situations."

A Robert Feline.

You know how some stupid thing strikes you as funny, and you cannot stop giggling about it like an idiot for 109 years? Or does that just happen to me?

A Robert Feline. Oh my god, it kills me. I kept waking up last night, thinking, ROBERT FELINE! then giggling myself back to sleep.

You can imagine what a not-annoying duo we made, back in the '90s, when we all taped NYPD Blue on our VCRs.

Back in the '90s, when we were all up in Susan Powter. Food doesn't make you fat! Fat makes you fat! Gimme another fat-free Entenmanns danish! I don't even NEED Jenny Craig!

Back in the '90s, when we said, Ima cut the sleeves off m'plaid shirt! That's hot. Let me spritz on a little Vanilla Fields and we're good to go!

Disclaimer: I never fucking wore Vanilla Fields.

Hey, it's the '90s! Let me put this Screaming Trees CD on the fancy five-CD changer and we can hang our goats high!

My Robert Feline, who is SICK AND TIRED of me cramming medicine down her gullet, has started venturing out a bit, and what I like is how I've managed to show you her still-good parts and none of her chawed parts. You don't want to see that; you really don't. Anyway, she's just started wandering out from the bedroom when I'm home. When I'm not, I close her in there so she'll rest and not tussle with Steely Ass.

Speaking of Shitty Dan,


I went to tie my robe today, and I was all WHAT THE FUCK, as I have nubs for robe ties now. HE ATE MY ROBE TIES.

"You need to put all your clothes away, June."

Oh, shut up.

Look at Edsel back there, feeling guilty because the cat ate my robe ties. Edz so sorry. He neber meen to bring dat cat into dis howse. He take full responsabiltee.


I've got a whole shit-ton of other exciting things happening in my life, none of which I can tell you about, and I'm sitting here thinking, Oooo, I could mention–no, I probably shouldn't. Or I could–nope. Can't tell that either.

Dammit. Just know there's stuff. When you read your tarot cards, when you get a lot of swords (you said, "swords"), it means there's a final flurry before stuff comes to fruition. I'm very sword-y phase right now with a lot of life events.


Are there a lot of big changes in your life right now, too, or is it just me? Changes at work, changes at home, changes to my neighborhood–what's up? Every woman I know except for my practical friend Lily and probably my equally practical friend Alex would say, "Is Mercury in retrograde or something?" and every man I know would be all, Change happens.

I kind of don't trust men who go in for all that shit we women like. Men who go to psychics or believe in ghosts. I also don't like men who come in for pedicures with their wives. Who started ruining pedicures for us? Whose idea was it to start dragging in their toddlers, resulting in half the pedicure chairs having purple polar bears on them, and who the fuck decided they had to bring their husbands? Can we have ANYTHING that's just us anymore? We can't even have all-women baby showers anymore, not that I like those but you know what I mean.

Anyway, I need men to be the eye-rolling ones over retrograde Mercury and so on, so I can continue to have my aura read and enjoy it. I don't know why, I just do. I need the balance.

I'll catch you later. My goal today is to show up at work with all-the-way dry hair and ALL of my makeup on. None of this finishing it in the bathroom today. Hashtag goals.

Your adult friend (finder),


P.S. Awhile back, on I think it was OK Cupid, some idiot wrote me. "Aren't you on AFF?" was all he wrote. I had no idea what that meant, so I didn't answer him. Then he had the nerve to WRITE ME BACK. Twice! "You could have at least responded." So let me tell you what. Then I DID respond. "I'm under no obligation to respond," I wrote, "and besides, your message made no sense." Only THEN did I Google fucking it and discover AFF was Adult Friend Finder, and then I was EVEN MORE MAD.

No, I'm not on Adult Friend Finder, you Immature Friend Finder. What a rude way to begin a conversation. I really feel like that's not how Prince Rainier made his initial move on Grace Kelly. You know who never in a million years would have hit the pedicure place? Prince Rainier.

Okay, bye.

June accidentally records her life. As opposed to this tome.

I was just uploading photos from my phone onto my computer

mom boreeng

and I saw among the photos a video on there that was half an hour long. "?" I asked myself.

seer y uslee, we so ober this story

I clicked play. It was a blank screen the whole time. You could hear me, what do you know, about to take Tallulah on a walk first, and Edsel had to wait, a thing I had to remind him 39495929 times. My theory is I musta been looking at my phone, accidentally hit the record button, then placed said phone face-down on the couch before taking Lu on her walk.

do anywon have stiff shot of wiskey? eyeriss just want story to end.

You can hear me snapping on Tallulah's leash, and telling distraught Edsel he has to wait (I can't handle them both. I used to be able to, but when they see another dog, they now attack each other, and what I have here is a pack of geniuses), and then you have THIRTY MINUTES of Edsel whining and barking.

Good lord. I had no idea he carried on that much when I left with Talu. Really, it was more 10 minutes of him whining and barking. As I listened to this recording today, both dogs came in, curious. hoo da hell barkeeng? wat a dik.

Eventually you hear him flump onto the couch, dejected, till I finally come in. You hear him jump off the couch, WHICH HE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON, you hear me say hello to Eds and announce my return, and then I snap his leash on. Then I pick up the phone and it's over.

I'm just glad I didn't hear any ghost noises or anything while I was gone because my whole face would just fall off in fear if that had happened.

lillee take lyfe

Okay, FINE. I'm done with that story. God.

o thank godz

I have to get to work. We have a two-hour meeting right during lunch with no lunch served, and of course I have no take-it-with-you-how-convenient things to snack on in order to live through that, so I have to go scrounge my cupboards like I'm a bear in a cabin.

Everyone tell me a story of a time you were humiliated in your youth. I always like when we have "everyone tell me stories" day. Those after-someone-dies stories the other day were EFFING RIVETING. As opposed to my story above.



Death stories. Because this is a happy place.

I woke up with a migraine today and dragged self to work because trouper.

So since I'm barely alive, let's tell death stories today. Yesterday at work, during our 3 o'clock walk, we were telling stories of weird things that happened when someone died or afterward. I love stories like that. So tell me yours.

Near death,


Old crow

It's been cloudy and rainy and ridiculous for days, and my floor back here is all muddy despite wiping these damn eight dog feets every time they come in. Note: Get mud entrance rug, for god's sake. The point is, after breakfast, those three seconds where the dogs have breakfast, they like to go back outside and have them an a.m. constitutional.


But today Tallulah wanted to stay in. "Do you want to be my indoor hound?" I asked her. She did. With her little cookie feet. Look at her perfect cookie feet. So okay. She's my indoor hound. I also asked her if she wanted to be blog dog today, and she sat right down and posed, as shown above. My dogs know the score.

I've noticed a little bit of slowing down in Talu. I mean, not a lot. She's only 8. But, like, she doesn't gobble her food with the gusto she used to. Edsel finishes first and then stands expectantly over her bowl, as if she's gonna stop early. "yuu want rest, eds? Lu could not eet nother bite."

And she only barks when it's really necessary, like when that creepy guy came to the door. Ooo, did I tell you about the creepy guy at the door?

I was in the living room in my cowboy chair, reading a book, when both dogs got up and raised their hackles. I mean, right away, they did, like a couple of dinosaurs. "Mmmmmm," growled Lu, all low and dignified. "Rrr-rrr-rr-rrr-rrr-rr-RR!" barked Edsel, who would not know the word "dignified" if I branded him with it.

Then there was a knock at the door. I hadn't heard anyone pull up, and I don't know why I opened the door. I looked through the peephole, but really I can't see a damn thing through there. I saw a blurry guy. I mean, I guess if I'd have looked through the peephole and was able to squint enough to see that it was blurry Death or blurry Charles Manson, I wouldn't have opened the door.

But I opened the door. Open the door! Are you ready for your mystery date? Open the door! Are you ready for your mystery death?

Anyway, there he was. Some white guy, skinny, kind of nervous. Not what you really want to see. The good news is, the dogs were losing their minds. I had to physically hold Edsel back from charging the guy. Every so often, Edsel is a badass.

"Ma'am I deliver meat. Any kind of meat you want. Do you need delivery of meat?"

Do I! But that's a matter for another time.

"No, thank you, I…"

"The truth is, ma'am, I need help. It's Christmas and I'm not doing well."

See, stuff like that kills me. Possibly literally. What if it's true? What if he's Jesus or something? Skinny meth Jesus? But really, at this point Edsel was practically foaming at the mouth, and Tallulah has the lowest, manliest bark and she was giving it her all. The guy looked nervously at my dogs, who I had by their collars.

"I'm sorry, these dogs. I have to go." I shut the door.

So I hope my what-look-like-killer dogs dissuade him from coming back and murdering me like a crow. Get it? A murder of crows? If I do get murdered, I want you to go around telling everyone that you used to read a blog and the blogger was murdered like a crow. I don't want you to explain yourself any further.

If I'm killed, he was slight and fair-haired. Probably mid-30s. That narrows it down.

I think from now on if a stranger comes to the door, I will shout through the closed door that my two dogs aren't nice to strangers and I can't take that chance. That sounds menacing, right? Or maybe I could get a gun! June's temper and a gun. Yeah! Do it!

Junie's got a gun. Dog days just begun.

I must stop singing lyrics for everything. Annoy own self. Should not live alone with own self and own self's thoughts.

Also, do you really think Jesus would come to your door looking all cracked out and menacing and then send you to hell because you were scared and didn't help? That hardly seems fair. That seems more like passive-aggressive Jesus. I would really resent burning in hell because I thought Jesus looked precisely like a Molly addict.

I don't think you can get addicted to the Molly, can you?

Oh my god, I have to go. There are approximately .004 people at work this week, but I am one of them. It's busier there than you'd think, and I kind of feel like the guy who had to stand behind Mr. Potter's wheelchair on Christmas Eve. I mean, that guy didn't even get Christmas Eve off? I do, however, get Christmas Eve off.

If you're off to be Xmassy, have a lovely holiday and I'll see you when you get back. I'll be here, unless I'm murdered like a crow. Oh, and also, everyone's answers yesterday were hilarious. I kept giggling at my desk like an idiot. Fortunately, there was no one in the room to hear me. I was like a tree in the forest.

I'll take my LEAVE of you now.


Return of Freaky Friday. OooooooWEEEEEEOooooooo!

I haven't done any Freaky Friday tales lately because as far as I know, I'm out of them. If you sent me one and I never published it, tell me in an email and I will look for it. Do you have any idea how many emails I get a day? They get lost, man. Lost. I guess I could make folders.

But I digress. I digress into folders, which is always riveting. So let me stop digressing and take you to Faithful Reader and Sender of Dog Flowers Peter's Freaky Friday story. You ready?


The first thing you need to know is that this story is true.  I heard it first from my father many years ago at the dinner table.  He was relating a tale he had been told by one of his closest family friends, a staunch Catholic who managed a large department store in the nearest city.  But this was during the late 1960s.  I was in my teens, jaded by the Vietnam War and questioning authority.  I didn’t believe it, so I spoke to one of the participants, the man’s son.  We had been friends since boyhood, and I have never known him to lie.  Even now, when we get together and reminisce, I ask him if this possibly could have happened.  He nods his head and says, “Yes, it did.  But don’t ask me to explain it.”   

It was a summer in New England.  The Beach Boys were filling the air on AM radio with their surfing tunes.  On the highways, everyone wanted to be behind the wheel of a Mustang.  The Red Sox had yet to find their Impossible Dream season, but Curt Gowdy could still make the games interesting from his radio perch at Fenway Park. 

My friend and his twin brother were in their mid-teens.  They earned spending money from cutting lawns and doing odd chores for neighbors.  As it happened, at the beginning of the summer an elderly woman moved into the house across the street.  The lawn surrounding her house had not been cut in some time, so the boys’ mother suggested they go across the street and offer to cut it.  They did, and the elderly woman was only too happy to agree.  When they had finished, drenched in sweat and covered with grass clippings, she asked what she owed them.

“Nothing,” they said.

Though she insisted, they refused to be paid.  She had no choice but to simply express her deepest thanks.  Standing on her front porch, she watched them push the lawn mower back across the street, and a smile filled her aged face.

As the summer progressed, they returned each week to cut the woman’s lawn.  There were other jobs to be done around her house, and they tackled those with the same spirit.  But they continued to refuse any payment for their work.  They told her that they were happy to help a neighbor, and they wouldn’t think of accepting money for doing so.  

One Thursday morning, towards summer’s end, their father was walking the aisles of the department store.  It was still a couple of hours before noon, and the store was not particularly crowded.  He saw his elderly neighbor approaching him from the opposite end of the aisle, and they met somewhere in the middle.  She was wearing a yellow rain slicker, which struck him as odd because there was no rain in the forecast.  “Good morning,” he said in greeting.

She smiled.  “I just wanted to come down to thank you and tell you how much I appreciate everything your boys have done for me,” she said in reply.  “They could not have been nicer.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “They’ve been happy to help.  But you certainly didn’t have to come all the way in here to tell me that.  Is there anything I can assist you with in the store?” he asked.

“No,” she answered.  “I just wanted to make sure I had a chance to tell you how I felt.”  And she turned and walked away. 

He didn’t give their meeting another thought.  On Saturday morning, he saw the woman’s son, a man he knew, entering her house and removing some of her items.  He crossed the street and asked if she was all right.

“Oh,” the son replied.  “You haven’t heard.  She passed away on Thursday morning.” 

“That’s impossible,” he replied.  “She came into the department store on Thursday morning.  I spoke to her.  She seemed fine.”

The son shook his head.  “You must have your days confused.  She wasn’t feeling well that morning.  My wife and I came over about 8 o’clock to take her to the hospital.  She died around ten.”

“That’s just about when I saw her.  She was in the store wearing a yellow rain slicker.”

The son took a step backward and stood there for a moment, unable to speak. “When we got to the house that morning,” he began, “my mother said she was cold.  We were in a rush and couldn’t find her a sweater, so we put her in that rain slicker.  She was wearing it when she died.

I still don’t really know what it sounds like when doves cry

Nobody freak out, but I deactivated my Facebook account again. It was just so peaceful without it. I got back on there to wish Ned a happy birthday back in June, then I thought, well, I'd be a fool to not leave it up for my birthday, because I am a giant ass.

Anyway, am off of there. Again.

Obviously, we're never gonna make it to the beach, but I've been enjoying my time off this week. The first person to say "staycation" gets pummeled with my liver.

Enclosed please find daisies Ned brought me.

IMG_0973Really, my daisies and not going to the beach and staycations and my liver have nothing to do with each other; I just saw the photo on my desktop and remembered I wanted to put it up. Here is another picture I wanted to put up.

IMG_0965There's a beautiful Crepe Myrtle across the street from me, as opposed to those ugly Crepe Myrtles we've heard so much about, and right now it's exploding all over the place and I love it.

IMG_0970Here are old Crepe and Myrtle enjoying it. Talu's Gentle Leader matches. Now I wish I'd have picked up that piece of newspaper, seen what it said.

When I lived in LA, I walked every weekday morning with my friend Kista. We lived in a really hilly neighborhood and we'd walk for 40 minutes. Our big finale was this set of redunkulous steps, and I'd hate me too for saying "redunkulous," that went straight up a hill. Every day we'd climb that thing and deposit our lungs at the top. Good gravy. The point is, we'd often find notes and photos and all sorts of things on the ground. We thought about making a book out of them.

Ooo, and speaking of which, some of my readers were nice enough to send me gifts for my birthday, and those are the very best kind of readers. Yesterday I cashed in my psychic reading at the hippie crystal store in town, (to thwart the 23949493 local emails I'm about to get, it's the one on State Street and the person who read me is whomever reads tarot cards every Tuesday).

So, she sets down my cards and says, "Hunh. Are you a writer?"


"Well, sort of, I mean, yeah." I can never just say yes, I'm a writer. I'm more of a spew whatever comes out-er. I'm like a Crepe Myrtle, only not as pretty.

"Well, you need to concentrate on that," she said. "Big things are happening there. Are you thinking of writing a book?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, yeah, I guess." She must have been blown away by my forceful nature.

"You should work on that now. I can see big things with that. A real change of pace."


Then she said, "Hunh. Are you an animal lover? Do you take on special cases?" Edsel immediately popped into my head, but then I remembered that Iris is allegedly sight-challenged. "Sight-challenged." Jesus. Maybe I'll start referring to my animals as feline-Americans and canine-Americans, too, while I'm up being an asshole. And I'll be sure to let everyone know they're RESCUES every time I possibly can.

The point is, interesting reading. Today I am cashing in the spa gift certificate another reader sent me. Did I mention gifty readers are the best KIND of readers?

Oh! And when I got home, I had an email from MY EDITOR at Purple Clover. It was full of compliments, telling me how great he thought my writing was, and I was all, "ooooWEEEEEooooooo!"

IMG_0975After my reading and compliments, I went to the movies. Last night they showed Purple Rain at the old movie theater. Ohmyhod, best time there, ever.

OhmyHOD. I don't even know who Hod is. But I'll bet I rescued him.

Anyway, everyone in there was a Prince freak like me, and as soon as he appeared in the movie we all started screaming and cheering. When Appolonia took off her clothes, we all hooted. So to speak. And when he got to Purple Rain, they lit up the arch that frames the movie screen; the screen has this elaborate, 1920s gold arch thing that's lovely. Anyway, it was hilarious. And of course, when he sang, "If you know what I'm singing about up here come on raise your hand" we ALL DID. The whole place.

And of course we all broke into, "Oooo, hooo, hoooo hooo" at the end. We were a group of idiots, is what we were. In unrelated news, I need a peplum leather coat like Appolonia's, stat.

http://en.musicplayon.com/embed-v2?v=603996 If you can get past the first minute of horrid buzzing, you get to the song and oh, how I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain.

I love me the Prince.

Anyway, I'm off to the spa, as you do on Wednesdays all the time when you're luxurious like me.

If you know what I'm blogging about up here come on raise your hand.

Eight Ways to Irk June

As I was logging in today, there was an article on the side of the log-in page called something like, "Seven Blogging Mistakes You're Probably Making." Probably rule number one is blogging about what you see on your sign-in page. Also, I understand that some yahoo somewhere determined we all stampede to articles with numbers in the headlines, but cut it out already. "Eight things you're doing to irk June!"

Speaking of which, at work the other day I announced to the open floor plan that I am officially sick of the phrase "fun facts." "Is that a fun fact about you?" my boss asked. Then he ordered a coffee mug for his own self: "World's Hilariousest Boss."

Anyway, three groups of people trooped in here yesterday to look at m'house. None of them want it.


Seriously. That horn never ceases to me funny to me. World's Hilariousest Blogger. So far I probably have

Four blogging mistakes in a post.

1. Blogging about your sign-in page. 2. Blogging about your boss. 3. Same tired-ass horn joke. 4. Blogging about your sign-in page. 5. Repeating yourself. 6. Making number lists different from your title.

And look. Maybe they WILL call, today or something, but I dunno. I had the place sparkling.

IMG_0709Everyone who came in said, "Nice place. It's a little blurry, though."

Damn. I just noticed the doily is scrunched. But I removed the doily before people got here, anyway. I tried to remove as much June Has Old Lady Taste stuff as I could.

IMG_0707 2

After I murdered my own self straightening everything, I got some coffee and a book I stole from Ned and waited. Ned just bought this book, and I picked it up while I was at his house the other day, and I could tell almost immediately it was gonna have hot lesbian action in it. "This book seems like it's gonna be pretty dirty," I said to Ned. "Yeah, I know. That's why I picked it," he said.

"Well, how'd you know? Do you have dirty-dar?" It irks Ned when I add "dar" to things. He says gaydar is a fine word, as it's like a play on radar, but makeupdar makes no sense, for example. Since I have irkNeddar, I do it early and often as a result.

"Well, I…looked at the cover," said Ned, and right then I knew there were two naked girls on the cover. Dudes, I'd watched Ned buy that book, saw it on his coffee table for a week, picked it up and READ FIVE PAGES, and hadn't noticed there were naked girls on the cover. And I feel like right here I should defend Ned, who always reads really smart, esoteric books that I would hardly ever be interested in, and as dirty books go this is a smart one (Tipping the Velvet. I know you're poised, over there, on the Comment button), and my point is I don't want you to think he's a lecherous perv.

"Wow! I hadn't even NOTICED the naked girls on the cover," I told him. "This is why you're clearly heterosexual and I'm not."

"You're not? That's…unwelcome news, June."

Oh, he knew what I meant.

So I read the dirty lesbian book till the first couple came, this cute girl and her huge hulking fiance. She went on about how she loved the house and how much character it had, while he remained stonily silent. My bathroom is smaller than most of his poos, so I know he wasn't feeling it. They stayed five minutes. They have a Boxer mix.

Exactly an hour later a lovely single mom and her son came. He was, as I told you in the comments yesterday, somewhere between six and 15 years old. The two of them have been living in 750 square feet since he was three, which was three or 12 years ago. She also said he loved my house, and asked if I had gas or electric heat, to which I said, "?" She seemed fascinated that someone would not know this, but what do I care as long as heat emerges from the wall?

She also liked my color-coordinated books and asked if the shelves were staying. Answer: No. Ned has a lot of filthy books to shelve.

The kid really, really wants a dog, she told me, and he took to Edsel like he had dogdar or something. The two of them dashed through the back door and ran around the yard together, and in general Eds fears the reaper and also children, and I kept an eye on him for signs of panic, lest he rear up and gnaw this woman's child to bits. But in fact he had a goofy grin and ran around like a moron the entire time, and I offered to throw him in to the deal. "Don't let my son hear that. He'll beg me to take you up on it."

IMG_0712edz beleef the chilren be our future

Finally, at 4:00 a young cute woman knocked on the door with the most gorgeous German lesbian you've ever seen. I mean, she buried Martina Navaratolova, who I don't even think is German. Blogging mistake 8. Get people's country of origin wrong. They looked around, and they were really interesting and funny, and as they were leaving, the hot German said, "I read that book, It's pretty great." Then she kind of gave me a knowing nod. A "Wow, who knew June was an older lez?" nod.

Blogging Mistake Number 9. Saying "lez."

I loved them, and I hope they take the place, and Ned was very, very interested in the idea of having to come here and repair things for two hot young lesbians.

Speaking of Ned, he came over after golfing with his dad, and as we have done every single day since we first saw the house we want to rent, we drove past it. We'll be at dinner, or at Lowe's, or putting together a Great Wall of China jigsaw puzzle, and Ned will say, "Wanna drive past our house?" "Yes."

So last night we did, and it was dark out, and some man was walking past. He said something. Ned rolled down the window. "What did you say, sir?" Ned is from the South.

"I said it's haunted!" yelled the guy, who laughed and crossed the street.


"Oh, it's not haunted," I said to Ned, who looked pale.

"I'm not scared," said Ned, pale-ly driving.

"I'm just a little scared," he said a few minutes later.

"I DON'T HANDLE THESE THINGS WELL," he said, as if we'd already been faced with 17 Amityville Horror scenarios in that house. Seventeen Ways to Haunt the New Tenants.

So, yeah. That happened.



Get Your Freak On with June

As I said the other day, and why don't you pay attention to me when I'm talking, on Fridays, I will report for you a freaky story told to me by a reader. Several have rolled in, and here's the first one. I read this LATE AT NIGHT when I was ALONE and thanks a lot, Faithful Reader Donna.

If you have any freaky stories for me–unexplained sightings, near-death experiences, haunty-ass houses, times you were psychic–send them to me at byebyepieblog@gmail.com. And title it Freaky Friday.

Here's the story.

We live in a 99 year-old house. Since we moved here, one of our dogs has a room that he will not go in. He just stands in the doorway and whines or sometimes growls a little while looking forlornly into it. Except for one time when I could hear him from upstairs, I came running down and he was lying in the middle of the room, crying inexplicably.

There were other unusual occurrences, doors slamming when no windows were open, lights on in rooms where you could swear you had turned them off, and a feeling that something has brushed just past you and when you looked down thinking you were going to pet one of the dogs, nothing was there. My daughter swears someone (thing?) is always turning off her curling iron. We joked that we had a ghost, a seemingly benevolent one, and randomly began calling him Walter.

One summer evening we noticed some people standing on the sidewalk looking up at our house. Our son recognized the man as one of the teachers at school. We had heard that he had lived in our house several years before, so we walked out and introduced ourselves. We chatted for a bit until the couple asked us if we had met “the ghost.” Of course we asked them to tell us more about it. Basically, they described the exact same situations we had been experiencing with one exception, almost all of their encounters (including an incident with a wall that wouldn’t take paint-creepy eh?) had occurred in the pantry instead of in the dining room/front room.

Unusually, another one of my son’s teachers had also lived in our house. I guess a house doesn’t get to be almost 100 years old in a college town without going through quite a few tenants. She too asked my son if we had met “the ghost,” described similar occurrences and reiterated the couple’s assertion that he lived in the pantry.

We continued co-existing peacefully with Walter, even taking to greeting him when we walked in the door. After we had been here a few years, my son and I went to the historical society to do some research on our house. We found out two things…

-The house had gone through several remodels, and the room that now torments our poor sweet black lab, used the be the pantry!

-While reviewing resident registries from the 1940s, I ran across a listing for a man named Walter Phillips at our address. When I saw it, I tapped my son on the arm and pointed to the listing, he read it and we both just sat there, feeling kinda freaky. We couldn’t explain why we had decided to call our ghost Walter any more than we could explain the things that were happening that we credited him with.

I did a bunch of research trying to find out more about him, see if perhaps he had died here. So far I’ve not been able to come up with anything. So for now, he remains the mysterious soul occasionally messing with our family, but mostly the dog.