The one where June makes hilarious Presidents Day puns

Edsel doing his sled dog impression. Or his Mushmouth impresh. Whichever.

It snowed again, which is very exciting for us here. My work is delayed a crummy hour. Given how much sliding down my street I did last night, I thought maybe they'd close the whole thing down. But no. I hope this weather won't interfere with all my day-after-Valentine's-Day flowers I am to get at work. My Presidents Day flowers. Because I'm a capitol gal.


A lot of this weekend involved watching old movies while trying to avoid my statistics textbook, and feeding Talu whatever she wanted. She's been on this pill for a few days that's supposed to shrink or at least slow her tumor, and she seems to be feeling much better. She even harrrrrred yesterday. That's this thing she does where she buries her snout in the carpet or bed and snurfs around and eventually falls down and rolls and says, "Harrrrr, HARRRRRRR." She's always done it and I have no idea what it's about, other than happy.

Remember when I called that pet psychic the other day? She emailed me to ask if she'd sent me the CD of our session. "No," I wrote back, "but I also haven't paid you. I'm so sorry." I told her about Talu and how I'm forgetting everything other than staring at my dog. "Oh, my god, don't even worry about paying me," she wrote. "Let me talk to Tallulah."

Later, she sent me an email. She said she told Tallulah that her tumor was inoperable, but I would make her comfortable and that a nice woman was coming over to peacefully let her go when it's time. (That same poor soul who used to come make house calls for Francis.)

Then she told me that Tallulah said thank you for telling her what's going on, and for making sure we have more time together. That she will be appreciative when the woman comes to the house to end her pain. She said to tell me she has loved our time together, "You've given me so much" and that she will always be my Tallulah. "I trust you with all of me," Tallulah allegedly said.

OH MY GOD. So that was a sobfest. Despite Lexapro.

Really, I feel like if Tallulah could talk, it would mostly be about food. But what do I know? I see her being food-driven like Ned. "Do mom remember that grouper Lu had in May of 2013?"


People have sent Lu treats, and tons of emails, and my coworker Slutty Pancakes gave me this Talu picture. Everyone feels bad about dead dogs. That's just how it is. Dogs are so much more appealing than us, I guess, even the bite-y ones.


ded dawgs. hooo care?

Lily, sittin' on my statistics. Because cats don't give a SHIT what you're doing or when your deadline is.

I did take my statistics and my ass downtown Saturday afternoon, and did my work at the bookstore, where they have coffee and some food. I got (and I hate to sound like Tallulah and Ned) an absolutely delicious ham and cheddar sandwich on focca–foca-foocaa–flat bread. The side was grape tomatoes with olive oil and basil, which I put ON the sandwich and holy mother of Christ.

I sat in the window, not that I'm a bird or a mannequin. They have little tables in the window. I wasn't there 10 minutes before I saw someone I know, and had to converse, but after that I spent three hours in peace, doing my work. There was an unlovely couple there, clearly on a first date, and they seemed to be having a good time. They were similarly unlovely, but as I watched surreptitiously from my table, they both got lovelier because they both seemed to be getting happier as the date went better and better. It was really very sweet, although if you ask me, it wouldn't have killed the woman to have put on something cuter and to knock it off with all the talk about her kid.

Said the person who spent 89 paragraphs on her dog.

Other than proofreading statistics and staring at the dog and watching old movies, my weekend culminated in going to my friend The Other Copy Editor's house to attend her Valentine's Day dinner party last night. Before I got there, I headed to the inconvenience store on my corner, which never has anything except they do have Kendall Jackson Chardonnay, which is good. I don't know if anyone remembers Valentine's Day 2012 in your Big Book of June Events, but Ned and I had just met, had had maybe three dates, when he was felled by illness right before V-Day. I remember he sent me an e-card, and later told me he was in bed that whole day, and the only time he got out was to send me that card and fall back into bed.

Anyway, it was just me and me that V-Day, so I went to the inconvenience store for a romantic dinner with my good friends Kendall and Jackson and maybe some salt-and-vinegar potato chips. There was Harry, the guy who was always my guy at the inconvenience store. He called himself Harry, but his real name was something like AbuDabuGaneshapur or something.

Was that racist?

"Oh, June, are you alone on Valentine's Day?" he asked me.

"Well, sort of. See I've just started seeing–"

"Oh, I am alone, too, Miss June. I am so lonely," he told me. "Why don't I bring a bottle of wine to your house after work? We spend this day together."

And that is how I ended up pulling my car as far up the driveway as possible, to try to hide my YELLOW FREAKING BUG from Harry in case he went looking for me after his lonely shift.

The point is, Harry wasn't there last night, although I was kind of hoping he would be, to bookend that event. Instead it was a kind of hot girl of color who was funny, but that's neither here nor there.


The inconvenience store was out of Kendall Jackson, clean out, so I had to get some shitty Chardonnay and head to TOCE's house. It was just starting to snow when I got to her street.


But it was so cozy at her house.


I love how the Baby Boomers are having a conversation and the Millennials are looking at their phones. Hello, stereotypes.



I don't know how I managed to get myself in focus and everyone else is a soft blur, but it kind of sums up all my relationships. The food at that party was so good that it was the kind of thing where you just want to be alone with it and stroke your plate lovingly. I'd have gotten up for fourths if I could have. Holy crap.

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I was there for two hours and it managed to snow like a banshee in those two hours. Then I had to slide home terrifyingly (yes, I HAVE forgotten I grew up in Michigan) and had to clomp through this tundra in high-heeled boots to take out my trash and Peg's trash, forgetting that today is Presidents Day and fuck.

I know you wish I'd talk more but now I have to go to work. Happy Presidents Day. In honor of it, I'm Lincoln to my latest Purple Clover. In which I talk about naked teenage boys of color. So. Hope you think my article is da O-bam-a.

Don't Washington your hands of me. I'll Fillmore of your needs tomorrow. And I'll be Nixon this kind of talk. It's Tru, Man.

Where June somehow mentions Princess Di, human trafficking and QVC in one post.

At work, a bunch of us are doing Dresscember, which is this challenge where you wear a dress every day in December, even on your ding-dang days off, as kind of a fundraiser to say, hey, I hate human trafficking.

I HATE Uncle Jamie.

Do you want to know what annoys me? Is just try to get one simple sentence that is SPECIFIC about this event. Here is the website for Dresscember. I linked you above to where you can donate to my specific fundraiser, because I know you're saying, "It's December! I'm not spending my money on anything else. Why not June's cause?"

Oh, and here. This was the best (edited by me) paragraph I could find on what we're doing…

Dressember opposes the worldwide trafficking and exploitation of women. Dressember works to rescue victims of slavery, sexual exploitation, and other forms of violent oppression. Those who participate in Dressember are supporting the abolition of modern-day slavery. 

What I have learned, as someone who writes and edits stuff you're supposed to want to buy for a living? Is once you've gotten really familiar with whatever it is you're selling or advocating or whatever? You get what's called the Curse of Knowledge. As in, you're too close to it and you can't explain it simply and clearly anymore. Like, did you ever have a doctor tell you what's wrong, but all his terms are so medical that you're all, what the…? Am I dying or do I have a cold? Of course, in my case, when you have a cold, you're basically dying.

Anyway, that's what I found with this organization, the Curse of Knowledge. They kept giving me vague, flowery descriptions of why I'm wearing a DING-DANG DRESS ALL DECEMBER–did I mention that?–and I just wanted a simple, declarative sentence that was, oh, precise.

The point is, I went stampeding into work yesterday in a dress. I own two dresses, one of them my wedding dress and the other my 1983 prom dress, and I walked in yesterday and there're all my coworkers, sportin' the pants. I put my hands on my be-dressed hips.

"I thought we were doing Dresscember!"

No one looked up. "We are. Today's November 30," said Fleeta.

Son of a…

So I'm wearing a dress again TODAY, which is enclosed for your viewing pleasure. Yes, that IS my Princess Diana ring from QVC. Shut up, dick. That was kind of Diana's signature line: "Shut up, dick."

I meant to take a picture of yesterday's dress I wore by accident, but you know Mondays are busy for me, as I have a Purple Clover deadline. Here, by the way, is last week's Purple Clover.

And here, once again, is the link if you wish to donate to the Dresscember cause. If you don't, you're saying you LOVE enslaved women. That's all. Don't feel bad about that. By the way, I'm the one who thought of our team name: Addressing the Issue. Love for self will never die. Love for self is here to stay.

In the meantime, tonight's my work Christmas party, and yes, we call it a Christmas party, none of this pussyfooting around. Everything's an argument anymore, you ever notice that? We got nervous people flapping their hands on one side saying we gotta include everyone, then we got the (let's face it) fairly bigoted folk on the other saying, Fuck that. Really, you're all being repugnant. Can't we just live and let live? Don't get your hemp blouse in a twist over a word, and don't get your Confederate flag all mussed over someone else's wants. Geez.

June for President.

Anyway, that's exciting, my work CHRISTMAS party and all. I'm going with my friend The Naughty Professor, who in fact used to work where I work, and he just left this year after about 109 years there.

Four years ago, I took Dick Whitman to my work Christmas party, and afterward we came back here for awhile, and as we were kibbitzing, my cat Roger opened the back door and ran out. He could open the doors. "Roger, don't go out," I yelled after him. That was the last I ever saw of him. He got out of my fenced yard, who knows how, into Peg's yard which is ALSO fenced, escaped THAT and got run over.

That was a terrible time. Roger was so effing cool. Anyway, I think of that every work Christmas party, so thanks, memories.

Shut up, dicks.


Blue walls and yellow dogs


On yesterday*, Bitchy Resting Face Alex came over and helped me paint. "Helped" is a curious term. I was totally Tom Sawyer in this scenario.

*When Marvin was a teacher, every Sunday night at 6:00 the phone would ring, back when people had phones in their house that would ring for all to hear, and it would be a recording from his principal. She had a PhD, yet she would say, "On Wednesday we'll have pizza day. On tomorrow, don't forget…"

On tomorrow. I like how my footnote is right at the top of this story.

Good gravy. I guess it's a Southern thing, saying "on tomorrow." But I digress. Hunh.


The room had formerly been a terrible beige that made me want to kill myself. Also, BRF Alex took this photo with HER phone, and I took the first one with MY phone. Enough said about our phones. The person who decorated this house before me–as in the last owner, the bitchy one from New York–had exactly my opposite taste. She was way into brass fixtures, and brownish everything. And faux marble countertops. You know me. I want everything to look like grandma's house in 1950.

Bitchy Resting Face Alex, who's half my age, had to tell me how to paint a room. Like, she said, "Get a flathead screwdriver and remove the faceplates."

Screwdriver? Faceplate?

So I did all that, although I had to use a knife and not a screwdriver and probably almost electrocuted my own self, and she taped everything off like it was a crime scene, like when they taped off Prince's dad's attempted suicide in Purple Rain. As you do.

Anyway, we brushed and we rolled and when she told me to use the roller slowly so as not to drip, I made a hilarious "slow your roll" joke. I also whipped out a "That's how I roll" room-stopper. I may even have said, "Let's roll." Basically I was Henny Youngman workin' that room. With a roller.

The hours rolled by, and although I still have to paint the whatever it's called, there, on the bottom, this room is mainly done. Poor BRF has to come back next weekend for Room Number 2. So to speak. What a shitty weekend. Bah.

The point is, after all was said and done and we stood in the doorway admiring our handywork, I realized.

It's exactly the same goddamn color as my living room.

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Goddammit. And, okay, when the two photos are squished up next to each other, they're SLIGHTLY different, but let's admit it–I got a whole Blush and Bashful scenario going on in my house.

wyy so bluu, mom?

So. Yeah. Hell. It's a pretty blue, though. It's called Sleepy Blue. You know what I need now? Is, like, a guest bed and so on. So this isn't just a big empty room, like my soul.

Oh! And I almost forgot!

June's Coworkers' Senior Pictures


Nope. Not over it yet.

Can o’snake ass

Photo on 11-13-15 at 7.35 AM #6

Oh, look! We still have boxes in here! How do, like, Army people do this, where they move all the ding-dang time? It’s so taxing. But it really is nice to be here, at home, rather than a whole ‘nother place. This morning I thought about how when Ned and I got up, we’d open the bedroom door and there’s be a cacophony of cats the second the door was open. It was like snakes out of a can. You know how often you open up snakes in a can. I’ma open up a can o’snake-ass.

Anyway, I wish every ding-dang thing didn’t remind me of my old house. Plus every time I drift off, I see Ned with another woman and I wake up all panicky. It’s fun in my head right now.

The good news is, the Stanley Steamer men came yesterday, and “men” is a strong term. There was a young, gleamingly white-toothed boy who was somewhere between illegal and 22, and a young hot man of color along with him. Who wanted to paint herself pink and do a Neapolitan ice cream imitation with her young suitors, do you think?

Who’s taken two young men from the fine offices of Stanley Steamer and turned them into her “suitors”? Hey, lid-flipper. How’s your flipped lid?

So my hot young boyfriends, who both desperately want to marry me and whatever shall I do, came over with their big hoses and commenced to getting my furniture hot. And if you think I was ridiculous about them, you should have seen Edsel. “Please forgive my dog. He’s gay,” I said to the men, who looked concerned about both of us, mostly because we were both rolling on our backs exposing our parts.

Now that I have the gate up, all Eds could do is put his lovelorn paws up on it and move his eyebrows around suggestively. And show off his junk. behold edzul junk. hooo wants to brake off a peece of edz?

Once they…turned on their hoses and cleanser…gushed out, Edsel became less enamored of Crockett and Tubbs. He came in here–where I was having crucial IMs with Faithful Reader Fay–and pressed against me, while still managing to moon longingly at his ebony and ivory dream team.

“If Edsel weren’t so scared of all the noise they’re making, he’d so be carving Hello heads from clay,” I wrote Fay.


It’s not every day you see three Afro mullets in one sitting. I need to make that a goal. See more Afro mullets in my day. It’s like getting your flax, but superior.

Speaking of things from our past, and the issues of our time that everyone should know about such as the Hello video, I overhead at work yesterday, “What was Cheers about?”


What was CHEERS about? It was about how makin’ your way in the world today takes everything you got. THAT’S what it was about. Oy!

Which then lead me to thinking about–noodling about, if you will, and I hope you won’t–TV theme songs. They don’t really do them so much now, do they? I so rarely watch regular TV. And I know I just sounded like an ass just then, whose monocle just fell off my eye. But in the ’60s and ’70s, theme songs were the shit. And they were RIDIK. Ridik, if you will, and I kind of hope you won’t.

Seeing as there’s ONE GUY at work who is my age, at least who sits in my general vicinity, we got on the topic of TV lyrics, in particular the Three’s Company theme song, and also the Eight is Enough theme song. Which are both ridik.

If you will.

Wait. When I was talking about Edsel sculpting heads like the Hello video, I Googled “Hello head Lionel Ritchie.” When I found the image above, I plunked it in here and didn’t look anymore, but just now when I went to Google TV theme lyrics, the Lionel Richie page was still up, and I saw all these ridiculous versions of Hello.

(Dear Mom: In, like, 1985, Lionel Richie, formerly of The Commodores, wrote a song that goes, “Hello? Is it me you’re looking for?” In the video for the song, a blind woman sculpts his face in clay and she does a terrible job, as blind sculptors are wont to do. XO, June)

Il_fullxfull.385183960_hcwi Lionel-rich-tea Aecb3a412a7c2894fc09e8f3fb8e376d E57107b3a60e7d3488879cc66dde3b64
So now I’m in hysterics. Hello. Is it pee you’re looking for? Right here in my pants. Don’t tell my suitors, Pete and Linc. Little Mod Squad humor for ya.

Anyway. TV theme songs. Which is the ridiculousest? Because Three’s Company is pretty stupid:

Come and knock on our door
We’ve been waiting for you
Where the kisses are hers and hers and his
Three’s company, too!
Come and dance on our floor
Take a step that is new
We’ve a lovable space that needs your face
Three’s company, too!

Yeah, shut up.

But really, Eight is Enough is way worse.

We spend our days like bright and shiny new dimes
If we’re ever puzzled by the changing times
There’s a plate of homemade wishes on the kitchen window sill
And eight is enough to fill our lives with love

Dude. If I ever start spending my day like a bright and shiny new dime, you are welcome to tell my boyfriends light and dark that I have expired. You are welcome to open a can o’snake-ass on me.

Bright and shiny new dime. Like that’s so exciting. What is this, 1932?

I gotta go. I’ve got a plate of homemade wishes on the kitchen windowsill and they’re attracting cockroaches.