The foreign-bean section

I just now got up and fed the regularly scheduled animals, and man, that was easy.

PLOOP. Throw Edsel’s food in a dish. I’ve moved his bowls and food tin back to the kitchen.

Thrill to the sight of the bowls in their rightful place.

I’d had them in this room, my computer room, at the back of the house,

Chalk outline of old bowl locale.

so his crunching wouldn’t scare the mom cat inches away in the room off the kitchen.

Say “room” one more time, June.


Krrrrplap. Iris and Lily’s food, served in the window of the kitchen.

FLAARP. Steely Dan’s canned food, atop the refridge.

Aaaaand, scene. I mean, that all took less than a minute. Everything was in one…room. I changed their water, too. Seriously. Under a minute.


But here is where I will not say my favorite thing when someone is telling a story, and the thing I will not say is, “Let me back up.”

After work, there was a happy hour, but I opted for a June hour instead. Like all my hours aren’t June hours.

I headed to the grocers, the greengrocers, Hulk Teeter’s, because I’d decided to have baked beans on toast during my wedding Saturday morning. When I lived in London the summer of 1990, every morning in the dorm one of the choices was baked beans on toast, and I always had it after my run through the park, and it was delicious.

I had a friend from London, when I lived in LA, and she was pretty much the Forrest Gump of our time. I mean, you name a cultural event in my generation, she was there, somehow. She’s had this charmed life. Anyway, SHE told me the reason it’s delicious is the type of baked bean they have in England.

IMG_8732I went over to the foreign bean section at my grocer’s Friday evening, and do you know every motherfucker in this town bought all the good beans, leaving just this dented can of botulism that I did not buy?

IMG_8733.jpgI also went to Target and got new watching-the-royals pajamas, as the royal family is famous for getting pajamas at Target. Meghan’s wedding dress was totally from Target.

I’d gone to bed early Friday, in order to be fresh for my wedding. I’d set the alarm, but oh my god I BOUNDED out of bed before it, got m’Diana QVC engagement ring on

and screamed over to the telly. I’m British now, as I have married Prince Harry, so I can say “telly.” I can also say “Savalas.”


wat da fek wrong wif mom.

Oh, I squealed, I cried, I clapped, I cried more, I screeched, I carried on. THAT WEDDING!!!!

I loved her tiara, and her lace on her veil. I thought her dress was perfect, and why people want it to be a skin-tight David’s bridal mermaid gown is beyond me. I loved everything, even Camilla’s hat.

I wanted to pinch the queen’s cheeks, which I’m certain would have gone over big.

And Meghan’s mom! She is magnificent. She was lit from within.

And okay. That preacher was a little much. But he meant well, and it makes me want to be Episcopalian.

I was a wreck by the end of that thing. I’d cried, I’d clapped, I’d changed religions.

I texted with my friends Lilly and Sandy throughout, and both L and S were annoyed that Meghan had hair out of place. “I realize it’s her thing, but still,” texted Sandy, who has always joined me in judgyness.

“It’s bothering me, too,” said Lilly, who likes Camilla, by the way, because “one day I’ll be an old horsey woman just like her, you know.”

I hate to say it, but I have softened re Camilla as well. They had unfortunate circumstances, but they were in love, Camilla and Charles were. Is it Camila or Camilla? I don’t have time to look it up.

Anyway, I pointed out to Lilly and Sandy that there we were, judging Meghan’s one hair out of place, when we were all three sitting around looking like hell in our pajamas.

IMG_8803.jpgAnyway, the whole thing was quite taxing on me, but totally worth it.

IMG_8809.jpgI had to stop off for a restorative cream soda after, she says keto-ly, at my favorite sandwich shop, which happened to be next to my Botox place, where I had a 10 a.m. appointment. Normally on a Saturday that hour would kill me, but hell, I’d had a whole day and every emotion and a religious conversion by then.

Fortunately for all of us, my Botoxer is my age. She had been almost late for work, so involved was she in our wedding.

“Yes, they were in love, but he’d made marriage vows,” said my Botoxer, as she came at me with with a needle. She herself is a victim of infidelity, but has meet a lovely new man, who she’s marrying in July.

My Botoxer and I throw down when we’re together.

“You really don’t ever want to get married again?” she asked me, as she jabbed the botox I rejected in my beans into my forehead.

“I really don’t. I did for a long time, when I was desperately in love, but now I enjoy my alone time. I mean, look at me this morning! I didn’t have to take any shit from anyone about my wedding.”


IMG_8820.jpgAfter my Botox, I had a 1 p.m. appointment to take my kittens and their mom to the shelter for shots. While they came to me in a shelter-appointed carrier (see above), I had to return them in two, because they’d gotten too big for eight cats in one carrier.

I’d been weighing them all along, and I knew all the orange boys were close to two pounds (that’s how much they have to weigh to be spayed or neutered) but all the girls were a pound and a half. Runty was a little less than a pound and a half. So what I figured was they’d return my carrier with three tortoiseshell kittens in it.

They came back with an empty carrier.

I lifted the thing to be sure.

“All of them?”

“Yes, ma’am. They all made weight.”

Dammit. I need to get something better than that old kitchen scale.

So, this week LaUral will get her little tortoiseshell and another faithful reader will get the mom. The good news is, when I first got to the shelter, I had two carriers with me, and there were two chairs available in the whole room.

One woman was sitting down filling out an adoption form, and her


of a daughter, who was young, like, maybe 15, maybe 20, they all look the same to me now, looked up, squealed over my


of kittens, and kept sitting her stupid young arse down in that chair. I wanted to bludgeon her with a cat carrier. So will I stood there holding eight cats so that


could sit next to her mom for no good reason, other people approached to look in my carriers. One young couple got quite enamored of my kittens, and as I was leaving they were filling out a form, too.

“Oh, are you really going to take one?” I asked, running down for them each personality trait of each kitten even though they hadn’t asked.

“We’re thinking of taking as many as three of them, ma’am,” they said.

Oh my god! Three!

“Take two orange boys, then, for sure.” I told him. “They all play together and would love to stay with each other.”

And then I returned to my empty house, with barely any pets in it.

I gotta go. I didn’t do much Sunday except grocery shop and drive out to the country for strawberries, which is my new favorite thing to do.

IMG_8826.jpgWhere, by the way, I saw this. Apparently there are water buffalo now in North Carolina. Or just hot cows. She’s the Pamela Anderson of cows.

I’d like you to take a moment to drink in my current references.

After I bought healthy strawberries, I also drove further out in the country and got some restorative ice cream, she continues keto-ly. There’s a dairy here where they make the ice cream on site, and I am pleased to tell you they have a very friendly guinea hen there named George who I am mos def in love with. (See above re current.)


Okay, now I’ve talked forever and I really have to go.

June, dutchess of keto




The June Channel

Photo on 5-14-18 at 8.14 AM
Sans makeup. Blugh. Oh, but I DO have on sunscreen! Australian Gold tinted 50 SPF.

You know those annoying posts where I put on my makeup and talk to you, because I’m tryina do everything at once?


Photo on 5-14-18 at 8.18 AM #3.jpg
Laura Mercier Secret Concealer for Undereye in 1.5. How can it be a secret if I’m telling you about it?

So, if you read yesterday’s post about my humiliation, you know I have TV now.

Photo on 5-14-18 at 8.22 AM #2
L’Oreal Brow Stylist in Light Brown. I don’t actually like this stuff, but it’s what I’ve got. Does anyone like their eyebrow tint?

Turns out, TV SUCKS, man. I haven’t watched TV in, what, two years? Is that how long it’s been?

First of all, almost all the channels are just commercials disguised as channels. QVC, old-lady makeup network, a cheerful channel called Dealing With Cancer. What happened to, you know, shows?

Photo on 5-14-18 at 8.28 AM
Chanel Perfection Lumiére Velvet in Beige

Then when you DO get a channel, like, I stopped on E!–E exclamation point–there are all these terrible POP-UPS at the bottom of the screen that distort the real show and distract you annoyingly.

Do TV people realize we can all just stream things now? That they should be getting BETTER, not worse? Why do we PAY for this bullshit?

Photo on 5-14-18 at 8.33 AM #2
NYX Natural Shadow Palette. Don’t really like this, either, but it’s what I’ve got. I like the COLORS, but it doesn’t seem to actually go ON. It’s like, did I just DO anything, applying this?

One good thing I found was a network that showed me old Warner Bros. cartoons. I saw one where a poor homeless hound dog needed shelter, so he found a house in the woods that ended up belonging to a skunk, and the whole thing was the two of them duking it out and being friends in the end.

I guess maybe in retrospect, the skunk was squatting in the house same as the hound dog, because there was a vanity with perfume, and why would the skunk have a vanity?

IMG_8592.jpgAlso the next one was a dog who got abandoned in a field, and I WAS ALL NO YOU ARE NOT SHOWING ME THIS, who wanders over to Porky Pig’s farm and tries to get P. Pig to adopt him. The dog is all, “I’m 50% Pointer–there it is, there it is. I’m 50% setter (he sits down). 50% boxer (he starts boxing).” Oh my god, it was magnificent.

Also, Porky Pig is not humane. He was mean to that poor dog. I guess to be a pig who owns a farm you gotta be pretty cutthroat.

Photo on 5-14-18 at 8.44 AM
NYX Retractable Eye Liner in Gray–they really make these labels on cosmetics for the young. And L’Oreal–although nowhere on this tube does it SAY that–Voluminous Butterfly Sculpt in Blackest Black, because eff natural. 

Finally, last night I watched Mildred Pierce on Turner Classic Movies. What happened to the old guy? There was always an old guy named I think Robert who introduced you to the film and told you the inside guff. Now they’ve got some preppy whippersnapper.

Photo on 5-14-18 at 8.49 AM
Clinique Chubby Stick in Roomiest Rose. I don’t really like it, but it’s what I’ve got. Are you sensing a theme, English major? Also, I like how sometimes Eds is at the door, and sometimes he’s dashed outside again.

So I’ll probably get ridda TV once the royal wedding is done, because this is bullshit.

Television industry, you have one week to get me hooked again.


P.S. Obligatory kitten picture:

%@&$ kittenz.



Twirl her tiny mustache

Did you ever see a TV show where the alarm goes off and the person shuts it off and immediately gets out of bed? Are there really people like that, or is it like TV gifts that are fully wrapped and you just take the top off ?

I used to think those Xs on the bottoms of Christmas trees were a fake TV thing, too, till I moved to LA and that’s how they give you a Christmas tree. Also, you haven’t experienced weird till the sun beats upon you while you’re getting a Christmas tree. With an X on the bottom.

Also, why do you guys let me do math? Why do you leave me alone with math problems?

Yesterday I said there were 108 lives in my house right now, and that I took forever to do that math. Today I woke up, by smacking the alarm and lying there forever like a normal not-in-LA person who has to cram her Christmas tree into an absurdly difficult Christmas tree stand, and figured out I did the math wrong.

Okay. Cats have nine lives.

I have three regularly scheduled cats.

Then I have a mom and seven kittens.

3 + 1 + 7 = 11.

9 lives x 11 cats is 99.

Right? But I said 108. And also, I kept thinking okay, there are 12 cats here (there aren’t) (I don’t think. Hell, if one slipped past the bouncer, who could blame me for not noticing at this point), so it’s 99 + 12.

But it wouldn’t be. It’s be 99 + 9.

Oh my god, hoooo care.

So, hi.

I have kittens.


Today at lunch I am going to scream down to the pet supply and get a bottle and mother’s milk. Like, from a cat, not from my own mother. I worry about this one, who is like a tenth of the size of her (his? her. Because tortoiseshell, right? They’re always girls?) siblings. Her name is Elizabeth–the youngest Walton. Look at her little mustache! It’s not so cute when I have one.

I tried to put all the other kittens in the carrier last night and give her alone with mom time, but she was so not into it. She wanted to wobble around and look at things teensily. Twirl her tiny mustache. And so on.

IMG_7486.jpgThere’s a lot of competition for food. Not to be obsessed with LA today or anything, but it’s like trying to go to brunch in Santa Monica.


IMG_7475.jpgSo that’s the update on foster kittens. The Foster Report®.

I wish I had some sort of…Foster Grant to cover the costs of this.


Really, you have sent tips, kitten tips, and that is magnificent of you. Thank you.

Lottie Blanco, m’coworker, brought me cans of kitten food, which I am feeding to the mom. They told me to feed kitten food to nursing cats. And it’ll be a matter of days before they all start eating that food.

I took down my tip jar ages ago, when I put UP that link to shop with Amazon. It seemed annoying to have both. Maybe my problem is I’m not ambitious.

Anyway, I still have a tip jar, it’s just not up. The link to send tips, just the tip, is still


But don’t leave a tip if you can’t afford it. I’m mentioning it now because a few times in the comments these past few days, people have wondered where the tip jar is, and that’s the answer. Maybe I should just put it the hell back up.

But we have other important details to discuss. Today we have:

Another poll.

Photos of my coworkers.

A rundown of the silent movie I saw last night.

And info on my high school boyfriend.

Oh, boy, June. Lemme get my coffee and we can get started. Even though you’ve already spoken for 626 words already.

Another poll.
You know my boss, fmr., whose clothes we vote on when she gets her StitchFix? She’s come into a little money as of late, a little pin money. Some hat money. Oh my god June shut up.

Should she:

…I just want you to know I can NEVER FIND where to add a poll to this blog, and I will not say the struggle is real but oh my hod. (Hod. What is WRONG with me? Oh my Hoda Kobe.)

Photos of my coworkers.
I have recently taken two coworker photos I’ve enjoyed. Here they are.

IMG_7188.jpgThis coworker came over to show me her cat mug, because she thought I would enjoy it, and what I enjoyed were her pink earrings, pink shirt, pink lipstick AND her pink mug, all at once. So a photo was born.

IMG_7448.jpgMy coworker Molly was excited about her new t-shirt, and I was taking photos of said shirt for her, but I like this blurry one best. Which is the story of my life.

Slivent Movie.
Slivent. What the hell is wrong with me? Have we discussed yet?

Last night, my old movie theater showed the silent film Sunrise, which I knew nothing about, but I did see the sequel, Sunset.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, June. Lemme get a tissue.


We have the original organ at my theater, from when it opened in 1927, and they have a guy come from Chapel Hill or somewhere to play it during the silent films. He’s really good. I mean, what do I know? But he adds to the suspense and so on with his playing.

Also, who knew this old movie would have me at the edge of my seat, barely able to concentrate on my peanut M&Ms?

There was one scene where some vamp-ish city folk, a word they kept capping in the subtitles, (“Come to the City.” “She was a fast City girl.” You know how lighthearted I am about things like this.) wanted to redo the hair of our country heroine, up there, and she had a fit and didn’t get her hair done. I was over there screaming, GET YOUR HAIR DONE, FOR GOD’S SAKE. I mean, silently. Because silent movie. Plus, peanut M&Ms in my mouth.

It really was a stupid hairdo. When she finally drowns at the end her hair looks way better.

Spoiler alert! You only had 91 years to see this movie, so I understand if your pressing schedule kept you from it.

I act like I didn’t just see it 12 hours ago.

yu annoy

High School Boyfriend
My high school swain, fmr., Cardinal, is in North Carolina, and we are getting together tonight. Naturally there’s something, like, dead in my house. There is this smell. I cannot figure it out. It’s not cat litter, although you’d think it was. The kittens don’t use a box yet, and I’m changing mom’s box twice a day and my OWN cats’ box twice a day.

I took out the trash and the recycling.

It’s driving me insane.

Anyway, this has become less about Cardinal and more about the dead thing that dwells under my house, but there it is.

I’ll talk to you tomorrow, when I hope to cover an equally dizzying array of the pressing topics of our time.

Shutting off the alarm and getting right out of bed. Also going to someone’s house to visit before work, like they do on TV shows and never anywhere else in life,




June wakes up to $15,000 in her account. I’M RICH!

Despite paying off almost all my credit card debt (I think this next check from my last huge freelance job will do it!), cash can sometimes be a tad low right before payday. For example. i.e. To wit: Yesterday I had $5 in checking. Continue reading June wakes up to $15,000 in her account. I’M RICH!

Rare. In the bloody way, not the special way.

Do you think of yourself as normal? I have never once, for as long as I can remember, considered myself to be normal. And I'm glad of it, although I haven't always been. I doubt anyone else finds me normal, either.

There was one woman who was married to my friend, a woman who made it a real point to seem different, kind of like that What's Goin' On chick, you know who I mean? 4nb6

Like, the second you meet her, she's got so much "Look how weird I am" happening with her look that you can't help but think, Hey, bundle of insecurity, how's it going?

Four Non Blondes. That was the name of the What's Goin' On band. I can't tell you how delighted I am that they made "non" stand alone like that. Like the cheese. Standing alone.

The point of my story is my friend's wife–the Hey World, Look at Me wife–found me desperately boring. "Oh, a tattoo on your ankle. How original." Yes, if only I'd had the creativity to get that feminine neck tattoo, Grace Kelly doppelganger, over there.

Other than that bitch, no one finds me all that normal. I don't think. Maybe they do and I just think my insides show, like one of those refrigerators with glass doors.

This might be genetic, this thinking I'm a rare flower. My grandmother, the one I'm turning into–and let's just call a spade a spade and call her The One I've Turned Into already–went to a restaurant when she was a kid, and she ordered a steak, rare, because she thought it meant it was this precious piece of steak or something. That there was no other steak like it in the world. When this bloody hunk of meat appeared on her plate she about died.

I don't know how I got on this tangent, other than I met this man from New York on one of my dating sites, a man from New York who's moved here, and my first thought was why did some fancy New Yorker pick a gal from Michigan like me, who likes sparkles and Real Housewives, and then I remembered the whole not-seeming-normal thing, which is probably refreshing for a New York man surrounded by women with french pedicures, Beach Girl bumper stickers and monogrammed commuter mugs. That was a short sentence.

Not that I'm saying there's a romance brewing in a commuter mug, by the way. I have no idea yet. I was just more stuck on the New Yorker thing.

Did y'all have those York Steakhouses in your malls? Those all dark in there places? I think it had burgundy wallpaper. We did for awhile, and I remember it was delicious after a day of shopping for Lip Smackers and Andy Gibb 45s. Also, welcome to how my brain works. As if you didn't know already.

There's nothing like steak served cafeteria style. If there were a York Steakhouse, I'd march right over there at lunch today. Because ravenous. I did that damn high intensity workout again last night, with my tenant, fmr., and listen to this. We decided to go a little longer, like Big Red. "You want to try two minutes more?" I asked. Believe me, two more minutes feels like to kill you when you're at the end of that thing.

Nevertheless, we persisted.

In other news, not that I've given you even one piece of news so far, I saw this photo on Facebook–I think Faithful Reader Paula put it up–and was stunned to find Midcentury June. Everything about this photo is Midcentury June. I want to know everything there is to know about this woman. I wonder if she's still alive! She could give Late Century June some advice, such as never, ever get a Boxer.

I love that picture so hard. The more you stare at it, the more shit you find to love.

I'd better get ready for work, as I am wont to do. I finished my latest freelance assignment, but another is coming next week. And I still need to write a Purple Clover this weekend. I can't seem to figure out how to start this particular column. It haunts me. I should probably just start writing and I'll be fine.

Also, I wrote an animal behaviorist about making an appointment for Edsel, and got a VERY snooty note back about how my vet needs to recommend said behaviorist, that I can't just make an appointment, who do I think I am with my generic ankle tattoo. But then I read that Prozac takes 4 weeks to kick in, and it's not been 4 weeks, so I decided to see if he seems better in a week or two. Poor sad Edsel. How many times are we gonna say that? In this life.

He doesn't seem sad right this minute. He's over here developing a real crush on m'toast. Edz can see reel fewchur with towst.

I'd better go, but oh! Last night I started streaming The People v OJ Simpson OH MY GOD, riveting. They didn't make Marcia Clark's hair bad enough, though. I know from bad hair.

I'll catch you later. Let's all meet up at York's, near the Sears entrance to the mall.

June gives it up early. When I post this to FB, about 17 of my exes will nod their damn heads.

I'm just now forming the thought that all this time I've been feeding Steely Dan too much. I thought he was much younger, and those oh-so-easy-to-read instructions on his canned food said to feed him three times a day. But now he's seven months old, and I'll bet I don't have to feed him at lunch anymore.


I wanted to capture him looking incredulously at the camera, but instead he's editorializing again, covering my offensive coffee with his judgey kitten foot. Once he learns to talk, he'll probably be all, dat bad for yuu, yuu no. make yuu jittree.

I don't know why petspeak needs to be misspelled. They're not writing it.

Anyway, as you know from your Big Book of June Events, tomorrow is my 10-year anniversary of blogging, and I spent 87 hours worrying about which photos to put in my 10-year video, cause I'd be all, yeah, it's good, but is it TEN YEARS good. And then I realized there were about 15 pets to cover and who should I leave out and basically the whole thing was hard. Life is hard. The point is, I finally finished it and got it on YouTube only to break up with Ned and have all the photos of him piss me off now, but even still, the damn thing is a retrospective of my past 10 years and he's in my last five years, so.

THE POINT IS, you guys started LOOKING for it. A coworker, who's read me for like four weeks and doesn't know any of the players, was even all, "I went on YouTube to try to see that video early and I can't find it."


So yesterday I put it on Facebook, but here it is for the rest of us. Videovus, for the rest of us. You know I have no idea what that's from? I know everyone goes on about it and laughs and high fives, but I am clueless. It must be a show I never cared about, like that one show about radio with Maura Tierney or the one about people working in cubicles where Roy and Jim or Roy and Pam or someone were always about to get married or something.

Oh my god anyway, here, without further ado, a day early because you guys are terrible, is my video in celebration of 10 years of blogging!

Taa-daaaa! I love that the shot they used, here, is Dick Whitman's mom. Cutest thing, ever. Plus I look good. That's what matters. I remember this is before I met Ned, and I was dating a different boy, and that was the first day we ever Did It.

What's with my eyebrows in that photo?

Oh! And speaking of eyebrows, I think Ima make it till payday!! On Monday, I had $21 to last till Thursday, and then I went to see It's a Wonderful Life at my old theater because it's what I do, so with the ticket and parking I had $10 left, but here it is Wednesday and that $10 is in tact and I have fish and spaghetti and you know what this is like? Remember in It's a Wonderful Life when they had the two single dollars left at 6 p.m.? That's what it's like.

A few of you sent me donations to celebrate my anniversary of bothering you for 10 years, and that's exciting and very kind! It will be here in a few days and then I will be high on the hog, man! And I know you guys talked in the comments about everyone sending me 10 dollars for 10 years, but I know it's most expensive-ist time of the damn year, and I do not expect that at all. Just that you're reading me is nice. I mean, who wants to read my crap every day? You do.

I didn't want to go off on this tangent. Want to save it for tomorrow. So I will.


Paula H&B, faithful reader, found the most ridiculously wonderful collection of middle-aged women in mid-century standing next to ridiculous Christmas trees, and I am in love. I am obsessed. I cannot get enough of these photos. They're my favorite things ever.

You know how I get about old photos.

I finished my cards last night, no thanks to my roommates.


The entire time was me moving cat bodies. Oh! And here's Austere Deer card. Chris and Lilly, don't look.


Do you really believe the "joyful" new year part? Cause those cards are staring at you in Personal Growth. (It's a When Harry Met Sally line. Sue me.) Those cards are the cards that insist you put on sunscreen before you can run out to the water. Those cards are first in line for flu shots. Those cards would never be 51 and living on $10 all week.

Also, I take issue with those cards capitalizing "New Year" the way it's used.

I'd better get in the shower, and I want you to–



He's up there eatin' the big cats' food. That jerk. Look at his little back footie, though.

IMG_4067 IMG_4061
Why do we have to have all these cats? [Looks behind her at whomever's responsible.]


Talk at you tomorrow. As I have done almost every day for the last 10 damn years.



P.S. Look up there at my goddamn nose. Son of a BITCH I hate my nose.

The mother and childish reunion

In a fit of fiscal responsibility, I canceled my cable about a week ago, and then last night I realized I was gonna miss the intellectually stimulating Real Housewives of Orange Country reunion special.

I wasn't even gonna see Ned last night, rich Ned with his cable. Ever since Ned and I decided to do our 90-day, same-as-cash reunion, we've been gone. Either I'm out of town or he is. So I got back to town Saturday, and he leaves this morning. Then he gets back Friday and leaves Saturday.


The point is, as soon as I got home this Saturday, we saw each other, and then again Sunday, so on Monday night he called me after disk bulge physical therapy. "What do you want to do tonight?" he asked.

"Ned, I know we're not gonna see each other till Friday, but I am exhausted," I said, and I can't imagine why. Couldn't be m'diet. "Do we have to do something?"

"Of course not," said Ned, who announced he was going home to feed his cat, then to dinner.

So when I realized I was going to miss the reunion last night, and that a mature individual could wait till the next day and watch it on her app–and yes I have a Bravo app and why don't you shut up–I called Ned back. Because there's no point in pretending I'm mature.

"Hello, Ned," I cooed, trying to sound seductive. Maybe if I seemed hot, he'd be amenable to letting me watch his very least-favorite show of all time at his house.

"Are you okay?" he asked, as I sounded vaguely like I'd swallowed hot mustard.

"Yes, I'm fine," I snapped. "But the Real Housewives reunion is tonight."

"I TOLD you not to cancel your cable," said Ned, who is my immaturity enabler. I'd already eaten, so Ned said, "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll leave my back door unlocked and turn the TV to Bravo, so if you get here before I'm done with dinner, you can just come in and start watching."

And that's just what I did. If you break all laws, you can get to Ned's in just four minutes, so I left my house at 7:55 and got there just before it started. Oh, it was exciting.

NedKitty ate my hair while I watched, and eventually Ned got back and looked at the TV a second, shook his head disapprovingly because sporting events are so much more honorable to watch, and went upstairs to pack for his next goddamn trip. They should stop calling them "trips" and just call them "professional cockblocks."

"Who's that one with the lips?" he asked once he'd packed. The one with the lips. Oh, that narrows it down. I think he meant Kelly. So then I had to tell him just how horrible Kelly is. Kelly says really, really mean things and then when people accuse her of going too low, she repeatedly asks, "Are there rules? Are there rules that say I can't fight dirty?"

Yes. They're called the rules of human decency.

Kelly is lucky she doesn't have blonde hair and brown eyes, is all I can say.

"Is that Vicki?" he asked later. "The one who lied about her boyfriend having cancer?" Last night, Vicki actually told one of the other women to get off her show. Her show. Hey, nutty. How's your grand delusion?

"It occurs to me, Ned, that you got a whole year of missing all the housewives," I noted. I wouldn't say he's been missing it, Bob. Ned once said that the formula for these shows is you take a bunch of pretty women and shake 'em up–with a bunch of bees. See what happens. Really, the best part of these reunions is watching Andy Cohen's bemused face as he mentally counts his cash.

Anyway, that was that, and now tonight Ima go see Rocky at the old movie theater. When I was a kid, we lived near a movie theater; you could see it from our house. So in the summer, when I was bored, I'd go to the dollar movie during the day, in the air conditioning. I saw Rocky approximately 20 times. I am not kidding. Same with The Sting.

The Sting is a really hard movie to understand, so it was good to see it that many times.

Also, Robert Redford.

Oh! I almost forgot. I was so busy informing you of the pressing events of our time. I wanted to ask you about two things today–you can respond to either or both.

First of all, have you or anyone you've known been in a relationship that hit a rough spot–you know, like being broken up for 14 months, just to throw a scenario out there–and survived? I want success stories. So far things with Ned are great, but I'm realistic. We're in the novelty of the reunion. Yes, we've got a plan in place for how we're going to do better, but do these things actually ever work? Do tell.

Also, we talked yesterday in the comments about things that make you irrationally angry. Like, FR Paula H&B said she gets irrationally angry when her purse falls off the car seat as she drives.


But I get angry all the time. I have a temper like a, you know, temper person. If I were a mattress, I'd be a Tempur-Pedic. If I were a band, I'd be the Temper-tations. If I were a magazine, I'd be Mad. I've always been that way. My aunt, when she visited recently, talked about a time I was 3, when I stormed down the hall to my room, stomp stomp stomping all the way, and I slammed my door pointedly, just in case everyone didn't know I was furious, and the door popped back open, so I slammed it again.



So, yes, the purse off the carseat does make me angry, as do things I try a couple times and fail at, such as securing a necklace. I'm normal maybe three times, but if I still can't clasp it the fourth time,


Oh, and if I get too many calls, texts and emails in a row. Like, the day I got back to town, I was just trying to unpack and settle back in, and every time that phone dinged at me I was furious. I mean, I had the choice to ignore said phone, but I still got mad.

Why? Why so cranky?

So now you go. Relationship falter/success stories, and also stories about what makes you irrationally angry. Do tell.


June goes downtown, which is not a euphemism


Yesterday I had to go to a building downtown to attend an all-day meeting. This is the view from the balcony behind the building. Went out there to smoke my 'rette. Man, I was having a nicotine fit.


It was really cool there. They took this whole back area and made it pretty. They took a nothing day and suddenly made it all seem worthwhile. Well it's you, alley, and you should know it. Also, Dear Fay: I will never want that wagon wheel …wagon wheel. Love, June.


Inside were all my loving teammates, and we spent the whole day coming up with new ideas for what we work on, or as I'm sorry to tell you, "ideating." Every time I hear that non-word, my soul dies a little more.

Speaking of soul-killers, because I was gonna be downtown all day, I took Lottie to daycare, and so did the Alex Who Sits Next to Me, the one you helped get a dog a few months back. I mean, she took her OWN dog, not my dog, to daycare. On breaks? We'd whip open our laptops and look at them on the webcam?

They were friends! They hung out together all day! They'd never met before! It was so cute. Out of all the dog daycares in all the world (Greensboro), Alex had to take her dog to mine.

So that was adorable, plus also her dog is an adult and totally looks like Lottie of the Future, so Lot recognized her own kind. Sort of dog-ist–breed-ist–if you ask me. Lottie would build a wall to keep out anyone who didn't have a brown snout. But still.

After our day of "ideating," which was actually pretty fun, we all went two doors down to the brewery, because it was the Alex in the photo above's last day. I screamed over to daycare and got the Lot, and she joined me for, sadly, her fourth time at that pub in four months of life.

Lottie totally needs rehab.

She was pretty good, meeting people and buying them drinks and giving out her dog digits, till some asshole had the nerve to bring his dog in. God. Whoever heard of someone taking their dog to a pub? Lottie had been splayed on the floor asleep and she JUMPED up. BARWARWARWARWAR! BOOF! She's a big "boof"-er. That thing where you don't really open your dog lips all the way, you bark and poof out your cheeks. That. She does that.

Anyway, I got her distracted by upside-down margaritas and next thing you know she was flashing the room for beads, so. Crisis averted. look at lotee teetz!

When I got her home, she kicked off her shoes and was so exhausted she could barely eat. Then I got the brilliant idea to Yoko her and take Lottie/June shots. Because humane. Also, I really need to give up the ghost on those black flats. They are wore out from the floor out.

can lotEE pleeze go bak to sleep now? we stop beeng at olan millz?

do anywon no number for peeta? lotteee beeng waterborded

Finally I gave up for more dignified pursuits.

IMG_1743 IMG_1746
Oh my god, I give up.

So that's that. There was an Abbott and Costello movie last night at my old theater, but I was tired and I'd been downtown all day, anyway. Tonight's Beach Blanket Bingo, and I'll probably bing-go to that. Except you know what? Tonight's my Hollywood Medium, and I hate to miss him as soon as he airs. God, what a dilemma. How do I juggle it all? Annette's teetz or my little twink's talks with the dead? Goddammit.

Stay tuned for the stunning conclusion tomorrow.

Undercover June


Do I sound intimidating? I've been watching a lot of Undercover Boss, and thank god my weekends mean a lot lately. Undercover Boss is where a CEO or president or whatever hoo-hah of a major company (7-Eleven, 1-800-Flowers, Waste Management, the Chicago Cubs) (not that I watched 109 of these this weekend or anything) pretends to be looking for entry-level work at the age of 60, as you do, and then he's down with the people for awhile and sees what really goes on with his company.

Or hers. Every 10th show, an actual woman is in charge, usually because she started the damn company her own self. Like that jewelry company everyone is a part of on Facebook. Stanford and Dash or whatever.

Oh, it's fascinating. And I noticed once they're the hoo-hah again–and they call these poor unsuspecting workers in to (a) give them diarrhea and (2) to say, That whole time you were in a hairnet is going to be on TV for everyone to see–once they're CEOs again, they almost always walk in with a fairly unfriendly, "Morning." Like, I'm the CEO. I say when it's morning.

The phrase "good morning" annoys me anyway. And you know how I hate all men who send me good morning texts. 

So that sums up my weekend. Fascinating, June. Oh! And also, when I woke up yesterday morning, I realized I'd left the broiler on all night, and my mother just fainted, and I was all, Oh, damn. So then half an hour later I went in to "make toast."

I don't have a toaster. I got rid of it during my year abroad, and that toaster at Ned's house was Ned's. I've never gotten another, which is dumb because I make toast all the time, and all my LA friends are appalled I eat bread right now.

So I broil it. I put bread in the broiler and have to flip it, like it's steak. But it's bread.

Twenty minutes later, I was all, Oh my god I forgot the bread! But when I went in there, I realized I hadn't turned on the broiler. After having had it on all night. Goddammit. Ten minutes after that, I was all, THE BREAD! and I ran in there and opened the broiler.

I'd forgotten to put in bread. I'd opened the bread, forgotten to get any out, and put the bread away.

Dementia runs in my family. I will miss you all.

In other news, I went to the grocery store at 9 p.m. last night. That's the time to do it. Late on Sunday. No one else is in there except for other terribly single people who don't have to watch The Wonderful World of Disney with their kids on Sunday nights. If some cable show knew what it was doing, it'd rerun WWoD on Sundays at 7:00, so everyone could have that "It's Sunday and Wonderful World of Disney" is on dread.

I noticed, in my weekend of solitude and nothingness, that many of my friends have up and gone all at once. Jo lives an hour away now, and Naughty Professor moved to Charlotte with his man. Tall Boy is still here, but he has a girlfriend, so. BRF Alex works in Winston now, so while she's HERE she's still spending most of her time far away. Roy and Nancy moved to Pennsylvania, and Charlie moved to Boston.

Ned moved to ex-boyfriend world.

Ryan has a girlfriend in Raleigh, so he's always with her. And The Other Copy Editor and her spouse just bought a gigantic mansion that they're turning into a B&B, so they're busy, and no, no one has any idea how they can afford it, but there they are, having done it.

Fleeta left work Friday, as she is moving to China. CHINA! And the other Alex, who I do yoga with? Her last day is Tuesday, and she's also going to be working in Winston.

solitary, pink-haired June

I don't mind isolating, I really don't, but probably I should get out more and do things. I've been thinking of going to the Unitarians on Sundays, but why do they have to meet so godawful early? Whoever heard of doing something at 11:00 on a Sunday? Can't they have, like, later meetings for people who drink?

Come to the Unitarian church. We meet at 11:00 for normal people, and at 4:00 for drinkers.

Actually, as part of my big weight loss plan, I have not been drinking at all, except for weekend evenings. That's my rule. I've lost five pounds! Allegedly. My new digital scale seems to be all over the place. One day it'll read 120 and the next day 125.

Oh, did I not mention my digital scale tells you what you weighed in 1990? It's like Facebook's time hop feature.

I'd better get to work. Tomorrow I have to be in my 8:00 for a meeting, which lasts till 8:45, and then from 9 to 5 I have a meeting. All day. 9 to 5. Lord.

I leave you with the caliber of messages I've been getting online…