Bye Bye, Pie!

Oh, and who sent me the BB Creme from South Korea? 'Fess up.

I want you to know I did everything I was supposed to yesterday. Here I am drinking water like it's going out of style after giving the dogs a 45-minute walk. And yes, my plantar fasciitis IS killing me today.

Water kind of IS in style right now, isn't it? We're all chugging it like we're in some desert somewhere, giving ourselves cancer with our plastic water bottles and so forth.

I also went to pet therapy at the assisted living place with Happy, who reads my blog and who "June?"d me a few months back after recognizing me at the Coldwater Creek. I know. Middle-age called. Wants its store back. But Coldwater Creek is getting some cute things! I am not making that up! Say, will you hold my elastic-waist jeans while I grab my bone-color Velcro tennis shoes?

Okay, those were old lady clothing items. Say, will you hold my Christmas vest while I pull on my mock turtleneck with candy canes on it? There we go. I'll be right back. Ima fly my May wind sock.

June. Hated by the Wind Sock Club. Since 2013. Anyway, in case you were worried SICK, I did not take my own badly behaved dogs to said therapy. Rather, normal calm dogs were there so as not to trample old people and possibly eat them, in the case of Tallulah.

I saw the really cool old guy who grew up in Michigan and lived in Seattle, so we are basically the same person, and it turns out there used to be a lot of strip clubs in my home town, which he enjoyed verily. His wife used to go WITH him to said strip clubs, and right then I loved her. I have been nagging Ned to take me to this strip club in Winston that's just called Girls Girls Girls. I feel like I'd come out of there with some stories.

(Dear Mom,

I know you are putting away that Marlo Thomas record and feeling like you failed. You never once played Free To Be a Fan of Strippers and Me, did you? I know.)

I ended my day yesterday by doing my favorite thing: Ned. Wait. That came out--oh, you know what I mean. Ned and I watched some episodes of The Sopranos, which he has never seen before, and as you can see, I plan to introduce him to ALL my good shows until finally he BEGS to watch Sex and the City, one episode after the other, for some marathon weekend. Oh, wouldn't that be the best thing ever? Other than the part where Ned had turned gay somewhere along the line. Maybe it happened after those 87 episodes of Real Housewives.

So, all in all a fine day, and I also got paid. which was a plus. It's nice to be getting a, you know, regular check again.The other day I made a budget, and as long as I cut out pesky expensive habits like eating thrice daily, I am golden.

Oh! But yesterday morning, since I had to hurry, I asked you what I should blog about today. Some of the things you suggested I cannot do, such as walk my behemoth bad pully squirrel-chasey dogs and hold their poop bags and somehow also take photos of my neighborhood with my third goddess arm that will conveniently pop out, finally. Or blow it with the nice place that is doing some thing nice for me that entails the Exciting Secret Thing that I will tell you about WHEN THEY SAY IT'S OKAY, since it's their nice thing that is nice and not mine.

But what I WILL do is answer Faithful Reader PJ's Qs. I liked those. Here they are:

June, I would love to hear about pivotal moments in your life. I would like to hear about how you think your sense of humor developed and who influenced you. Pets! What is the most exciting that that has ever happened to you? What's your biggest challenge in life? Books! What you're reading, recently read.

Those are all excellent questions, and they are questions I will answer TOMORROW since I seem to have blathered on with my brief rundown of yesterday and now I have to get to work again.

With the WORK thing all the time. FIVE DAYS A WEEK they expect me to be in there! Yeesch! I should live in one of those laid-back, siesta, wine-at-lunch, long-dinners-late-at-night nappy places. I guess "siesta" and "nappy" are one and the same, but you get my idea. Maybe after all those siestas I'd have nappy hair.

Adios,

June

S Word. Or, "I'll take Swords for 100, Alex."

Did you ever see that Celebrity Jeopardy on Saturday Night Live when Sean Connery sees the category "S Words" and says, "I'll take Swords for 100, Alex"?

I effing love Celebrity Jeopardy on Saturday Night Live.

But that is not why I've gathered you all here today. I have GATHERED you here to ask you another question. A few weeks ago, I asked you to tell your secret, if you had one, and wow, you all participated in droves. Some of them were heartbreaking and some were fascinating and I was so pleased you all did it. Thank you again.

In those comments, one reader said, "You should ask people how often they REALLY have sex. Now, THAT would be interesting."

And you know what? I think it would. I don't know if ANYONE will comment today, but if you have the nerve, of course sign in anonymously if you want, and tell us how often you, you know, Do It.

Tell me your age range (in your 30s, in your 80s, whatever) and marital status. And tell the TRUTH, for heaven's sake.

Okay, go.

(Dear Mom, Please do not participate. Okay, thanks. XO, June.)

100% Natural

I'm trying to eat my delicious Ines Rosales tortas and Tallulah is on her hind legs, being two legs bad, trying to get it. Talu's beggy look. I'm certainly falling for it, too, you manipulative ass. Yes, it's perfectly fine to call your dog an ass. It's in all the best training manuals. Cesar has one just called: Your Dog is a King Kamehameha Ass. Haven't you read it?

Have you had the Ines Rosales torta? Is "torta" the plural of "tortas"? Cannot wait for first know-it-all to tell me smugly, "No, Jooob, the singular of tortas is xyepphrelt. God."

"Jooob." Dying. Nice typing. My keyboard is an ass.

Anyway, I know it sounds like Ines Rosales paid me to mention them today in between things that make little sense, but sadly they did not remotely do any such thing.

Basically Ines Roasalas tortas are a crispy cinnamon tortilla and they bring me much happiness.

"How's the no-sugar diet going, June?" Oh, shut up.

The reason I own any Ines Rosales tortas--and man, at this point I'd have earned $11,000 or something if they'd offered me cash per mention--is because Ned and I went to the newest pretentious co-op vegan-ish look-what-the-white-people-have-built-now grocery store in his neighborhood, and luckily for me, near my work.

I know we really know how to live it up, going to a grocery store and all, but I had work to do this weekend and welcomed any diversion. Oooo, buying vegan Tide and organic cat litter? Sign me up!

Speaking of cat litter, I love this photo of Ned throwing blossoms on me, holding a bag of NedKitty poo. We were on our way to his Dumpster. Did you know "Dumpster" is a proper noun? Welcome to my pool of knowledge.

At Ned's apartment, they inexplicably have special trash cans that read "Dispose of Kitty Litter Here," which I took a photo of before but do you really think I have time to find it in the 9 million pictures I have so organizedly arranged on my computer? Anyway the good news is that is the photo that pops up whenever my pal Hulk calls. I always forget I put it there to represent Hulk, then the phone rings and I giggle. Hulk adores him the cats.

I really don't understand people who don't like cats. And I always like them a little less than I would otherwise. If you don't like cats I kind of write you off as kind of needy and simple. I am sorry. But I do. Obviously I can work up a like of you otherwise. See: Hulk. Who I don't think of as needy and simple, just kind of a dick.

At any rate, the healthy, pretentious, overpriced ($21 for almond butter!) new co-op was pretty interesting. "Every white liberal in Greensboro is gonna be here," I said when we pulled in and two black people were walking out, making me look like an idiot and THANKS, BLACK PEOPLE. Am certain they were still pot-smoking, loom-owning, NPR-listening hippies.

We got out of Ned's car, where he had been listening to NPR on the radio, and sauntered in. And it's a good thing we did, because people who go to the vegan pretentious hoity-toity patchouli-wearing new food co-cop? Were not what you'd call in a rush. Holy cats. You have never seen so much milling and standing stock still to enjoy the organic vitamins in your fucking life. Seriously, it was like they installed dye-free statues in the aisles here and there for decoration.

Now, I hope you're sitting down, but Ned is a little more tolerant of, you know, everybody than I am. "Is it bugging you how people seem to be standing around, here?" I asked him, as I wedged my way past a 100% cotton couple. "Oh my god, YES. It's so fucking annoying!" he said, and I was delighted. Maybe my intolerance is rubbing off on him. Teach Intolerance.

Anyway, he bought one tiny bag of nutritional yeast and I got 16 vegan power bars, the cinnamon tortas, some tamales and fake potato chips. Only June could find ways to buy unhealthy in a fancy left-wing Joni Mitchell health-food parents-from-Valley-Girl-own-it grocery store.

So that's how I'm eating the tortas that Talu wants. Aren't you glad you stuck around for that?

I leave you with photos from a fancy vegan gluten-free hippie white Bye Bye, Pie get-together that occurred this weekend.

I guess other than the cigarettes and wine and whatever Fay is imbibing, back there. From left to right, here is Sadie, PJ, Tee, Fay and Beverly. If you read the comments, you have seen their names 12,000 times.

I don't want ANY MORE OF YOU making fun of my photos, as this one has a BIG LINE in the middle. Do I give you big lines? I do not.

They all got together in Atlanta this weekend, and I feel like mature times were had by all.

I fricking love candy cigarettes. PJ even flew in for the thing! As you can see, Tee picked her up and fortunately for everyone, no one was a stabby type of person, as far as I know. They sent me all these photos and then I never heard from anyone again. Maybe it ended in a tragic bloodbath, which frankly would really pump my reader numbers, so yay!

wyy edz not invite to antlant bash?

Because you are such a drunk, Eds. No one wants to deal with it.

Anyway, that sums up the weekend, except for this:

Someone and his tongue got to go to the dog park this weekend. Run off that hangover. This tongue picture kills me. As does the stick going up his nose.

Okay, that is all. June, organic.

Post Secrets. Get it? Do you?

Wow.

So, that was astonishing, wasn't it? Thank you all for telling your secrets. My posts are set up so you can leave comments for the next week or so, so if you get your courage up later, do so then. After reading your comments yesterday, I looked around at the people at work and wondered what they had going on that I didn't know about, and I decided to be less crabby about the door near me.

I sit right by the stairs, see, and you have to push three numbers to get the door open from the stairwell to the office, to protect us from all the inevitable criminals who are just dying to pillage us all day long. And since I'm three inches from that door, ALL DAY LONG I hear, "Click. Click. Click. Blunk." The "blunk" is the sound of the door NOT opening. "Click. Click. Click. Blunk."

"Click. Click. Click. Blunk."

WHY CAN NO ONE GET THE CODE RIGHT? It's been the same since I've started there, and NO ONE GETS IT RIGHT THE FIRST 80 TIMES EVER. Click. Click. Click. Blunk.

OHFORTHELOVEOFALLTHATISHOLY.

So anyway I decided to be more patient about that. Maybe the person clicking and blunk-ing has something big on his or her mind. You can tell I'm already well on my way to adjusting my attitude about that.

Anyway. Thank you again for participating. Not too sound too much like my therapist mom ("What's wrong with sounding like me?" she's gonna call and ask later), but how did that make you feel? Now I'm leaning all over earnestly, looking therapist-y. Was it a relief? Did it feel terrible to re-live it? What?

Am totally wearing a therapist natural-fiber sweater right now, and am putting up some kind of soothing picture in my computer room for you. The orange crates are out of here.

Marvin always used to want me to move those orange crate photos around, to see if any of you noticed. I know you'd notice. Y'all notice everything.

It's a computer wire holder that inexplicably looks like Edsel. That's what that red thing is on the wall that you're gonna ask about. The Poet gave it to me a long time ago. Oh, and speaking of The Poet, you had asked who she was, seeing as she is a fancy celebrated author and such. She told me I could tell you. Go Google Sarah Lindsay. She's the one who's NOT a speed skater.

And speaking of being fancy and celebrated, something...happened this week for me that is pretty exciting. I can't talk about it now because I haven't signed a contract, and no, I did not get a full-time job. Still. Click click click blunk. However, I did get an offer to do something cool and further reports as developments warrant. I'm just saying to you. I.am.so.famous. -ish.

I'd better go scream around hysterically now and get ready for work. I've been freelancing every night since Thursday, and I think I'm done with that, but then tomorrow I take half a day off to help Ned get his wisdom teeth removed. Yes, I'm assisting the dentist. Because I'm exactly who you want in a medical situation.

Then on Sunday, there's a dance thing for my friend Charlie. He taught contra dancing every Tuesday, and I went once and it made me dizzy, and on Sunday there is all-day contra dancing (Google it, for heaven's sake) (you know I always get impatient when y'all ask me what something is when GOOGLE IS RIGHT THERE) (click click click--oh forget it) and an auction and Charlie will be there and yay. Excited to go. Will take Dramamine this time. I am not even kidding. IT'S VERY DIZZYING.

Spinning out,

June.

Weveal Wednesday

Last night, Ned and I went to the Post Secret Lecture at Wake Forest, which is a university where you learn all about woods that can't sleep. It's a school where they get you drunk and throw you in the forest, where you wake up lost. It's a school where the trees chatter like magpies, and you're all GO TO BED.

Okay, I'm done. Also, Dear Youth of Today: Sometimes you could go a minute without looking at your goddamn phone. Says the woman taking pictures with her phone.

It turns out WIDE AWAKE! I'm WIDE AWAKE! WIDE AWAKE! I'm not sleeping Forest is a very pretty university. It's small and it's private, just like my lady bits.

Am waiting for some Cliff Claven to write in and tell me what Wake Forest really means. Will be fascinated. I promise.

So, Post Secret, as I've told you before and pay attention, is a website where the founder of the thing (can you be a "founder" of a website? I just totally made that up, didn't I?) shows you post cards he received each week where people reveal their innermost secrets.

Last night he spoke about this phenomenon, and how he got started, and secrets he's heard and then if you wanted, under the dimmed lights you could go up and reveal yours.

Ned had a headache, but he went with me anyway. Then the whole time he looked miserable and headachy. Had Ned gotten to the microphone, his secret would have been, "I wish to remove my head and bludgeon June with it."

Poor Ned. I kept giving him the acupressure thing on his hand--have you ever tried it? it works sometimes--oh for God's sake, Google it--but it did not work for Ned, who clearly had one of those three-hour tumors we've heard so much about.

When you walked in, they handed you a post card, where you could write your OWN secret and mail it to the Post Secret guy. "Do you have any deep secrets?" I asked Ned, who claimed he did not. So then I made a bunch up on his post card.

"Yeah, that sure looks like a man wrote it," said Ned, rubbing his head. I tried again.

"What's better? Is that FLEECE? Why?" I mean, how long has Ned known me? Has he not yet caught on that I make no sense?

"Yeah, none of these things are true," said Ned, who probably stopped thinking I was da bomb somewhere between my Wake Forest jokes and fleece.

Anyway, finally the program began and Frank, the founding father of Post Secret, was just great. He said the secret he hears most is that people pee in the shower. I honestly think I have never once peed in the shower. I mean, why would you need to? You're already in the bathroom. I always pee before showering anyway. But if you've done it, no judgement here.

Freak.

When people got up and told their secrets, sometimes you just wanted to cry.

Anyway, after it was over, I said, "I am so doing this on my blog tomorrow. A faithful reader suggested that we have 'Fess Up Friday,' but now I'm too excited about it and I want to have, um, oh hell. It could be Secrets Saturday or Thrilling Thursday, but what the hell can Wednesday be?"

And that is why today is Weveal Wednesday, where if you want, you can tell us a secret. Sign in as anonymous, or as Not June or as Secret Person. Whatever. If you're really super worried, use a fake email address when you sign in. And no matter what the secret is, no one is allowed to say anything negative about it. We just have to let it be.

If you just want to say, "Lovely post, June," or "Did Ned ever recover?" you can do that too. (Answer: As soon as he ate something, he felt fine. He got the salmon. The waiter had to come over eleventy thousand times but finally he got the salmon. I had the pistachio-encrusted flounder, though, and I think I got the superior dish.)

But I'd love to have Weveal Wednesday most of all. We are only as sick as our secrets.

Philosophically, June

In which a reader discovers TinaDoris is a made-up name

I spent most of yesterday in bed, and not in a good way. The pain of my migraine was gone by 11:00-ish, but dear god in heaven I could not keep my eyes open after that. A migraine makes you exhausted after. I don't know why. I know this may be a news flash but I do not have an MD. At any rate, spent several hours in that dead, oblivious, toddler kind of sleep, where I twitched in my onesie and had a sweaty head after while I listlessly grabbed my sippy cup.

At one point, I dragged myself up and went to the post office to mail a certified letter to Poland, so I can FINALLY get paid by that place I freelanced for IN OCTOBER. So far that job I did has cost me $100 and I've made nothing. I had to send $85 to our government to request this certificate proving I'm from here, and have they seen my fashion sense and loud personality? Of course I'm from here.

And could that have been more of a nightmarish experience? They kept requesting MORE info, like I was lying, and every time I tried to fax them the info, because apparently our government is partying like it's 1989, the faxes wouldn't work, and just try CALLING A GOVERNMENT OFFICE and actually getting anyone.

Anyway, they finally believed I am American, thanks to passing an ethnocentric quiz where I proved I have no knowledge of any geography that isn't United States' geography, and sent me the damn certificaate, which I had to mail, certified, to Poland. Because the LAST thing I mailed to Poland never got there.

Aren't you glad I launched into this story? Fascinating, is what it is.

I also slothed over to Target, where I tiredly refilled my migraine meds, and I'm still paying my deductible, so $331 later I left the store and killed myself. I just got that medication 20 days ago and had to refill it again.

So my mood was sparkling when I got home and fell into another toddler nap. Maybe I was just cranky because I needed a nap. And a few Cheerios spread on my high chair tray.

By the way, that'll be the end of the toddler jokes, since I know no more toddler behavior. We've tapped the bulk of my toddler experience, right there. I think you should be impressed that I was able to observe a person and label them "toddler" and not a human between the ages of 18 months to 11 years.

Once the evening rolled around, I got out of bed again and went to pet therapy. Edsel's having father issues.

In fact, I did not take any pet to any therapy, although god knows we could all use it here in this house of hair and pain. What happened was, a few months ago I was shopping, and the person next to me in line said, "June?" and as always, since the first time that happened to me, I said, "Yes?" as though that were my real name, and what's creepy about that other than everything.

At any rate, we got to talking and the "June?" person invited me to accompany her to pet therapy, where she takes a few dogs to an old folks' home, and "old folks' home" is probably politically incorrect. Once we were there we had eskimo pies and played the jew's harp.

She invited Tallulah and Edsel, which would have been delightful. Only four hips broken this time when my dogs jumped on the elderly! Not a bad month!

So, armed with coffee at 6:00 in the afternoon, I went to pet therapy, where I met Rosie and Riley, and you will be stunned to hear I took to them. I had to elbow so many old people out of my way to pet them. GOD. Pushy.

I also met a man who'd grown up in Michigan and lived in Seattle. We were the same person, other than the part where he was 91 and male. And I met an old black guy who'd worked at the Plaza in New York and met King Hussein and Eartha Kitt. I don't think they were checking in together, but let's start a rumor that they were.

So I liked it. I liked pet therapy. The woman who invited me, who is a faithful reader, stopped short when I said something about Marvin. "Who?" she asked. "My ex-husband. Marvin." I said. "Oh, it sounded like you said another name." "I did," I told her. "I used his real name."

"Marvin's real name isn't Marvin? Don't tell me Ned isn't really Ned," she said. "He LOOKS like such a Ned!" She was stunned to hear Ned isn't Ned, and then I asked her, "Did you really think I had a friend named TinaDoris? I mean, did her parent hate her?"

"I always thought that was an unfortunate name," she said. Then she worried that my pets had fake names, too, which they do not. So anyway, in case there's anyone out there thinking my friends' names are real, they are not. They are changed to protect heaven knows what.

I guess that sums up my day, except at the very end of it, Ned, whose name is not really Ned, came over after a fancy work dinner to check on the state of my migraine and visit me in general. I like Ned. Whose name isn't really Ned.

God, doesn't a nap sound wonderful?

Supposedly faithful readers but really dogs.

By the way, what's this?

When Ned was sewing on my buttons, we noted that silver saint-medal-looking thing, and we knew normal domestic people would know what you did with it but we were flummoxed. Is it like a golden ticket, and now Ned has to be Pope? Do tell.

And speaking of faithful readers helping a sister out, yesterday in the comments, someone said we were so hungry after eating fish and vegetables because we didn't have enough starch or something, and she suggested rice with sauteed vegetables as a side dish, and I want you to know Ned listened and made that with his leftover fish and had a "godammit, this is good" moment. I was on the phone with him when it happened. So thank you.

I really had no idea what I was gonna blog about this morning, but now I have a little theme: faithful readers.

For example, Faithful Reader Jan recently got a puppy, and named it Wilbur, and in a stunning turn of events, I love him. I asked her if I could share Wilbur with all y'all and she said yes. What she does not know is she also agreed to give me Wilbur after I drugged her. How you drug someone through the Internet is beyond me but I did it.

LOOK AT HIMMMMM!

Also, two Christmases ago, I went to dog daycare to drop off my curs, and there in the lobby they had a sign: "We are fostering Ladybird. She is from the animal shelter, but she'll stay here for a month. She needs a home." I think, thank God, they did not say "furever home," which makes me want to stab self with drink swords.

Naturally, like an IDOT, I looked through the glass at the playroom, and there she was. Looking all sad. And thin. And pretty. And whooooooo asked the daycare to get her out so's I could meet her?

Also, y'all, what was going on with my HAIR two Christmases ago? Why did none of you speak up about that Jean-Harlow-on-heroin mess?

Anyway, I put Ladybird up on this here blog, and those of you who did not cancel Christmas over my hair said you loved her and wished you could take her and blah blah blah. Then? I got an email. My friend Mindy, who I've been friends with since 8th grade, had just lost her wonderful dog at Thanksgiving, and she was in the market for a new doggie snickerdoodley doo. Because that's a lot better to say than "furever home."

The point is, I schlepped to Kentucky  with Ladybird nine days before Christmas and met Mindy in a mall parking lot, which by the way is a brilliant thing to do nine days before Christmas. Ladybird was so nervous about me in the car, and then we stopped at Long John Silvers and split a piece of fish, and then she wasn't nervous with me in the car anymore.

My point is, I keep meaning to send you pictures of Ladybird, who thank God Mindy and I decided to call Lucie, because apparently I have to stick my mitts into everyone's everything and have a say in that dog's name.

So here is Lucie in her furever home. She is happy, and I got 20 free visits to dog daycare. Win! See? At least I didn't say win-win. But let me say furever home again. Ooo, how about veggie? I haven't said that yet.

The only other faithful reader story I have to tell you involves a nice woman who wrote me yesterday. Sometimes someone will email me and say, "I just found your blog and read a bunch of it and you are so not funny." Okay, no one writes that, but you know that's what they mean and they're just writing cause they feel sorry for me. "Wow, keep, um, going there, June. [You poor poor thing.]"

Anyway, so she somehow told me, in her email, that she was Navajo, and then she said a bunch of nice things and attached the number for my local comedy school, should I want to attend, and the point is I wrote this back:

See, the part where you're Navajo should probably tell me that I should abstain from letting you know my Uncle Jim used to tell people he was a member of the Slap-a-Ho tribe. A tasteful person would say to herself, "Don't tell that to someone who's actually Native American, and who you've just met." That's what, say, Jackie Kennedy would tell herself. On the other hand, did Jackie Kennedy have any relatives who'd make Slap-a-Ho jokes? Well, maybe that drunk dad of hers.

I always get impressed with myself when I remember to use my out-quote feature. Anyway, thank GOD she wrote back and did not hate me furever for my Slap-a-Ho reference. I mean, really it's Uncle Jim's fault. If he hadn't said it I wouldn't be forced to repeat it.

Oh, wait! I thought of one more faithful reader thing. Apparently this is less faithful readers and more faithful readers' dogs. Beause FR Letha does dog rescue, and she sent me a photo of her latest crop, Pit/Beagle mixes, which in case anyone forgot is Tallulah's fine mix of breeds.

LITTLE LUUUUUUUUssssss! LOOK at them. I say that second one is from some affair mom had with a St. Bernard who got thrown in the mix. But whatever. The last two totally have Talu looks on their faces. yah. we got pit in here. to not eff wif, bittches.

Do you know what'd be a lovely accessory in my home? A spare Beagle/Pit, in case the one I have wears out. Don't you think? What do you mean, "no job"? What's that about "small house"? Oh, shut up all of you. June's gonna go Pit on you.

Ruff-ly,

June

I've been living so long with these pictures of you

It's 12:25 as I sit down to write this, and my plans today are (were) to garden a bit more, and pay some bills, do my yoga DVD because after a week of Tracy Anderson I feel tight as Camilla Parker Bowles' lips whenever Goodbye England's Rose is played, but what I decided to do first was come over here and get more of your damn pictures on here.

About a month ago, I stupidly said to y'all, "Hey! Why doesn't everyone send me their photo, so's I can see what YOU look like since you're always stuck looking at me." And everyone who didn't unfriend me for saying "so's" sent me their picture. Everyone and their half brother. Everyone and Camilla Parker Bowles.

Ned will be here at 5:00 to see a movie, and how much do you want to bet I will still be sitting here putting in your photos?

So let's begin.

Missus B knew I'd love her husband's shirt. That guy next to them is the Fashion Police. He is so busted.

L. in CA! Oh mygod, she's posted a MILLION comments over the year. No, literally. Sending her the gold watch. Right after I send whoever I owe those Abraham Lincoln Band-Aids.

By the way, one faithful reader BOUGHT ME the Abe Lincoln Band-Aids for Christmas, and she was all, "Now you can finally send that poor reader her band-aids." Guess what I still haven't done?

Joan in Nevada said she doesn't envy me the task of putting these up, but that she's excited to see the other Piehards.

Piehards.

We totally need Piehard coffee mugs.

Look how pretty Texas Laura is at her work's holiday party. Love that jewelry and love that shirt. See what she didn't do? She didn't wear a Christmas sweater. AND LOOK HOW NICE SHE LOOKS.

Someday I will be sued by the Christmas sweater people. They will storm over here in their reindeer vests and give me what-for.

Here is Summer holding what I think is a saint, therefore I will not tell you that my first thought was "marital aid."

Liz is originally from Michigan, like some people we know. She has the pretty hair. How come HER hair is thick and wavy but she doesn't look insane? Like some people we know.

Jeanie practically committed hari-kari getting her pics to me. She was all, "If you can see these, I'm on the left. If you can't, I give up." Totally felt her crankiness through the Internet, and I FEEL YOU, Jeanie. Hate stupid computer issues. It's always the computer's fault, too.

Oh, Susanna! Now, don't you cry for me. You're standing there in Paris and I'm in the South kill me.

I should totally be a songwriter.

Here's Tawny in Toronto. Ohhhh, Tawny! Now, don't you cry for me! You're chilling in Toronto and I'm frowning in NC.

Seriously, it's like I'm Cole Porter or something. Only cooler. I'm Cool Porter.

"This is me, Chelsea in Texas. I'm kind of a lurker....but occasionally post when I'm feeling particularly witty. Or passionate. Or passionately witty.  Which is not right now....because I'm eating nachos."

And that is when I loved her.

Here's Faith in Paris, with some guy she picked up. Alternatively, here's Faith in Paris with her husband. I know they're in front of the Louvre, and I mean, later Ima stand in front of Target, so.

I sort of know Davida. She and I dated the same person. Not at the same time. Anyway, then she started reading my blog and now she and I are in love. Well. Maybe she doesn't love me at all. Maybe it's one-sided and that's why she never thanks me for the flowers I send daily.

Here's Kelly Pie, who says she has nothing in common with me. BUT WHAT ABOUT PIE? You got PIE right in your NAME!

B S says the most flattering pic of her is one where she's behind the camera. Here, however, are her doggie-doo-snickerdoodles. That was me saying that. I think someone who owns no-nonsense dogs such as these probably never says "doggie-doo-snickerdoodles." Look, they heard me. Now they're gonna kick my ass.

Speaking of which, it's now 1:19 and my ass has grown numb. Let's continue.

Here's Elis in WA with her doggie-doo-snick-- okay, I'll stop. Cute dog, though.

Steph in Fla says she's commented a few times, but doesn't it seem like she's a more of a regular commentor? Doesn't her name sound familiar? Anyway, what matters is, she has really good skin. Whereas I'm Cole PORE-ter.

Terri R lives in Florida and says she loves my blog. Now, see, if I lived in Florida all I'd ever do is stand around in front of Barry Gibb's house. I guess she could do that and look at my blog on her tablet or other highfalutin' device. June's blog. To be read while you stalk formerly famous people.

DB in MD had just rolled her kayak, and I didn't even know you could SMOKE kayaks.

Ruby Blue was all, "Sure, my house is aflame, but June's photo deadline is approaching."

Barbara lives kind of near me, which means I am dragging her with me next time I go stand in front of Target.

Kathi said I'm the one place she stops every day, and I was all, Doesn't she have to PEE sometimes?

Here's Caroline Longhorn, who apparently just had her horns trimmed or something, cause I can't see 'em.

Laurie wrote, "Sometimes you just don't need to see the whole forehead."

Here is Melva, who said she is a lurker/stalker. Either one works for me.

Sherry from Texas, who I guess has a menu in front of her, but for the longest time it just looked like an internal organ to me. Because there is something deeply wrong with me. Hey, it's 1:47 and here I still am. Could that be part of the problem?

Faithful reader and Commenter Saundra, who is German, and trying to steal Hulk from me, when we all know Hulk is my oh-my-god-I'm-50-and-still-single backup plan.

Just got more coffee, and the rest of the coconut cream cheese cake from the dessert place we went to last night. Which I was excited to tell you about, but nooooo. June had to finish this project.

And you KNOW I'll get a comment, "My picture never made it on here." With a frowny face. YOU KNOW IT WILL HAPPEN.

Dear person who does this: Look in your sent mail January 8, 9 or 10. If what you sent me was NOT titled "blog photo," you do not get to send me frowny face. You can send me a vagicon. Remember in the comments when we started sending each other female anatomy emoticons? Why did we do that? What is wrong with us? Have I mentioned my behind-end parts are numb?

Let's press on.

Kathy F. Do you think this was her 21st birthday and someone gave her that balloon to be an asshole?

I have no idea why cute Christian's photo took ELEVEN YEARS to download. While it was doing so, I gave the rest of the frosting to the dogs.

Won't you come eat off my forks soon?

I see in my email, my endless, endless "blog photo" email, that when Ruth sent this picture, I wrote back and said, "Say, are you from the Bible?"

Would marry self all over again. Commisioned a The Blogger statue of self. To go in The Cole Porter Museum.

Jala sent this and I informed her that I like cats. Then she fell into a shocked faint.

Steph in St. Pete, formerly Steph in Tampa, currently Steph who I kind of have crush on. Hot. Hottie hot hot.

Leeuna! There's a commenter name I recognize from way back. The photographer went to the June Gardens School of Centering Your Subject. It's one of my more popular classes.

Aaaaaaand Cecelia is my people.

ASHLEY wrote that her son is cuter than her, then wrote that she was waiting for me to protest in 3,2,1... and I see that I never replied. NICE! Nice, June. ASHLEY, you and all your caps are adorable.

Here's Miffy and her little dog, too, whose name is Frankie. This reminds me of one of Tallulah's Facebook updates, where she'd sort of bullied a schnauzer at the dog park. He'd been sort of scared of Talu, and she said, "You gots a beard. Be a man."

Tallulah is hilarious. She's on FB under Tallulah Gardens if you haven't friended her. Also, I have no idea if that dog is a schnauzer up there. I just saw "beard" and thought of Talu. Also Kelly Preston.

Bah.

Oh, but let's continue. Because am not ready to tie noose at this point.

Carol wants us to be kind because she only scored a two on that narcissism quiz. But, really, being a narcissist is an undesirable trait, says June, who scored a 19.

Jessica, in the purple and black, sent a very nice note saying she reads me every day, starting in 2007 when she was on bed rest for her pregnancy. "It was the most boring three months of my life," she said. June's blog. For when you're painfully, nauseatingly bored.

Megan V. said about this photo: "I'm pregnant with our first kiddo and in the picture, you see me with my husband, Bryan (on the right) and his father (on the left) with a ninja mask going around our belly to represent Shepherd. It doesn't fully make sense which is just our style."

I think I would like her.

We are nowhere NEAR done, but Ima do just five more because IT's 2:30, people, and I have turned to stone, over here. At least my arse has.

Pamela Soul Sister #2 comments every day, and I did not know she was all cute and stuff. Also, am liking the lip gloss. Tell us what kind, PSS#2, so we can all stop wearing Pink Beach.

Cyndi said she doesn't like to comment because she's not as witty as the other commenters. People tell me this all the time, and I wish you'd comment even if you're dull as mud. I said years ago that if you can't think of anything to say, "Lovely post, June" will suffice. It's just nice to hear from you, whether you're Shekky Greene or not. I have no idea if that's how you spell Shekky Greene, but no longer care because NUMB ARSE OH MY GOD.

Megan thinks I'm hysterical. Look at her friend, there. They must have been reading me out in public, as you do. Because I'm hysterical. Or maybe she means a person with hysteria.  

Dammit.

Also, Megan is pretty. Has everyone noted that? You know what makes you pretty? Not doing yoga, but instead eating coconut cake and sitting endlessly at your computer. THAT makes you pretty.

Amy used to be Amy in KY, but is relieved they moved to Georgia so she can change her unfortunate moniker. Also PUPPY DOOGIE DOO SNICKERDOODLES!!!!!!!

Last one today. Have turned into Sylvia Plath, over here.

I know this is teensy, but this is how it came to me. Elsie says, "This photo is five years old, and I've aged considerably, I think.  Recent photos don't resemble my self-image the least little bit.  After this photo was taken I retired from teaching middle school, cared for my parents who have both since died, and have gained weight, wrinkles, and grey hair.  I resemble what you feared in your 07 Jan 13 blog post."

I can't remember what I said in my January 7 post, but Elsie killed me with this. "Here's a picture of me. I look like shit now." Elsie, honey, I refuse to believe that. I'm sure you are cute as a button. Also there is no way you are more depressed than I am after sitting here for 17 hours.

THERE ARE MORE PHOTOS LEFT, y'all. So stay tuned for a different day, when, like childbirth, I forget the pain of this project.

XO, June

 

I think I'm dumb. Maybe just happy.

Last night, after leaving work an hour early and heading to Ned's to look at his cat, who was perfectly fine without me and who wonders why the HELL I bother her, I went home and got into some sexy pajamas and turned on my fixed TV.

That was the longest, most convoluted sentence ever.

I ended up renting a documentary (shut up) called Happy. It looked at people from the slums of India to the fanciest places in America and saw who was happy and why. I was riveted to the whole thing when my phone rang and it was an old friend from high school, and hearing from him made me...happy.

Anyway, since I still ache and hurt and cannot stop effing coughing and have the energy of a heroin-addled sloth with anemia, I will ask you another question today in lieu of actually, you know, blogging.

Are you happy? Why? Why not? What do you think it takes to be happy?

[insert smiley-face emoticon here]

June reports from her cold. She never drones on when she has a cold. Fortunately.

At least, as a single childless person, when I'm sick like this I really don't have to function. It's not like I have to get up to get some kid off to school. So there's that.

Hey, how're y'all? I have a cold. I know that when I have a cold, I do not carry on dramatically or anything. Are the lights going out? Is that a tunnel?

Yesterday I slept and splayed histrionically on the couch and blew my nose. It is amazing how many Kleenexes I plowed through, but I have them in droves because my Aunt Mary sent me a bunch, thinking she was hilarious. I have always had the theory that only rich people have Kleenex. I mean, you need a tissue? Why can't you just use toilet paper? You don't need a whole FANCY DIFFERENT form. I said this once when Aunt Mary was visiting, or maybe it was my father and he reported it to her, but anyway neither of them have stopped making fun of me since and for Christmas Aunt Mary sent me, like, six boxes of Kleenex.

I feel so rich. And, truthfully, glad to have all this goddamn Kleenex.

I read an entire book yesterday, in my convalescence: Girl in Translation. I highly recommend it. It's the book my book club pal Hibiscus Wilson recommended for February, and I borrowed it from her this weekend. Hibiscus Wilson lives so close to me that if she were choking on something, I could get over there and Heimlich her on time. How she'd let me KNOW she needed Heimliching is beyond me, cause you only need it when you can't talk anymore. Dear Hibiscus: We need some kind of ringing-me-and-hanging-up sign for if this ever happens. Also, am nervous person and will probably flap hands around helplessly for first three minutes once I get there. Hope this is not a problem.

Are the lights going out for Hibiscus?

In the book, which did I mention I liked? Except for at the end. She pissed me off at the end. Anyway, in the book she mentions a song from an opera, and I've always kind of wanted to know more about opera, because some of it's beautiful and I know people enjoy the SHIT out of opera--I mean, look at Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck. He loved him the opera. And he was hot. With his wooden Pinocchio hand--and I feel like if I knew more about it I'd enjoy it.

The point is, she mentions in the book the piece E lucivan le stelle, which means "When the starts were brightly shining," God, who doesn't know that (thanks, Bing), and I got on trusty YouTube and watched some dude sing it. And I was all, okay, eh. Then they also had Pavarotti singing it. You know, that Pavarotti. He can sing. Not as well as me, but...

Plus, Pavarotti kind of looks like if Barry Gibb enjoyed too many carbs. So I like that about him.

Anyway, since I'm just sitting here expiring from a rare and unusual cold, I thought I'd show more pictures of you.

Oh, wait. These two dicks never read my blog.

eyeriss CANT reed, mom, she blynd. thanks for bringeeng up.

Oh, great. Let's just START OFF with another cute reader. This is Ezra Pound's Mama, who tells me she is receiving a mix tape in this photo. No, it is not 1988. Has anyone seen my Salon Selectives hairspray?

Faithful Reader Amish Annie sent in a picture of Barry Gibb's wife, thinking she was hye-larious.

Kimberly Hope wants to emphasize she is on the left. Also, HELLLLOO DOGGGIEEEEEE. Wif your tuff Christmas collar on. I LOVE YOUUUUUUUU.

Here's Lauren, whose daughter had just done her hair and why is my hair never cute like this?

Hottie hot Culpepper. Many CLAIM to have read me forever, but Culpepper really has. She was with me back when no one read me on Saturdays.

Wait...

I'd asked Culpepper, "Is your HAIR longer?" and she said yes, her husband likes it longer, and I said, "All men like longer hair. Why is that? If it were up to them we'd all have long straight stripper hair. Which with my face would make me look like Mr. Ed."

In shocking news, I heart me.

Here is Amanda with her husband. Also?

You know what'd be great? Is Pavarotti singing Amanda. Also, I am sorry to report that the first concert Ned saw was Boston. Hulk is over there all, "What's wrong with that?" You know who's probably sick of that song? Amanda, up there. I like the Fancy Feast "ting" they do in that song. Is anyone listening and totally hanging their lighter high right now?

Here's Christyd4, who fortunately I have no YouTube song for. I hear Christyd4 is a real wheat. BAH!!! It's ingrained.

This is Tami in NV, and see? This is why I did this arduous project. I was all, OHMYGOD! I remember her comments! It's exciting to SEE people.

Here's Helen at the White House. Seriously. I mean, my HOUSE is WHITE, but...

I was so busy being amuuuuuused by this reader's funny email and by her dog, Fisher, that I didn't notice till now that she did not tell me her name. I been through the desert on a reader with no name.

Hulk, I was never actually on this reader. But if it gets you through the day...

This is my best friend, Pal from MA. When I suggested we all send our pictures in and 95859339494939 of you listened, I said, "When you send, tell me your commentor name. If you sign in as Depressed Girl, don't send me a pic and sign it Beth." Anyway, Pal from MA wants the moniker Depressed Girl now. She's going through some shit, folks. Send good thoughts to Depressed Girl. Let's get Obnoxious Screechy Older-than-June-by-Six-Weeks-and-Therefore-Cooler Girl back, with her need for tonic soon.

Here is Faithful Reader Mother, who also serves as my mother. I was making her point out her Christmas pin, which she had on with a...nother Christmas pin under this jacket. Dying. Who enjoys her the Christmas?

I have met Faithful Reader Mary in real life. I have not met her kitty, who looks DEEEEEElighted to be in a blanket.

Faithful Reader D-Lou says she calls herself that because her resemblance to JLo is astonishing. I like D-Lou. And I'm not fooled by the rocks that she's got.

Kim in Columbus. Another one where I was all, "I remember that name!" It's exciting to be me.

Kim in Columbus looks like some kind of 19th-century painting. Am I the only one who sees that?

Rinaldi, who I can tell I'd like, not only sent this photo, but a fine childhood one, as well.

Yyyyyep.

Did she tell her mom that day, "Do my hair like Sally from Davey and Goliath"?

Here's CliffClaven. Another total, "I remember that name!!" moment. I mean, of course I remember that name, from Cheers. You know what I mean. Stop it.

"Faithful Reader But Not Faithful Commenter Rebekah with your newest reader, Faithful Fetus Madeline." That's what Rebekah wrote, and it killed me. Faithful Fetus. Probably Madeline is all, "I can't WAIT to get out of here and read Dooce instead."

Whitley. Being cute. Sigh. EVERYONE STOP BEING CUTE. Have you SEEN me today? In no world am I passing for cute.

This reader had one name for her email and another naming this picture, so let's just call her Xeropthalmia. As you do.

YAY!!! Here's Faithful Reader The Chief, who was editor of our hard-hitting high school newspaper. She was the boss of Hulk and me. I was features editor and Hulk was (sit down) sports editor. Chief rules. In every way. Love her.

We will end with Sully, who looks like she's drinking that kind of beer Ned likes. As in, it has a flavor. Which, blech. But Sully looks fun, don't you think? Now I'm kind of hungry for pub food. Why is no one bringing me pub food? I'm in my final hours on this planet, and NOT ONE OF YOU--

--okay, fine. Don't feel sorry for ME. I'll just go to my grave wanting beef stew or fish and chips. No, I DON'T want to tell you how Project Emiciated is going in prep for my high school reunion.

Talk at you tomorrow. IF I'M STILL HERE.

Mucuously,

June