Thursday, September 6, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Lovely, talented Sherry Ellis's latest book is available. It's

Bubba and Squirt are great characters, and the book is an excellent choice for inquisitive kids––and aren't they all inquisitive?

You can find Bubba and Squirt's Big Dig To China on Amazon at

You can trust me when I say it's a good book: I edited it.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

So sorry that the link I provided at first wasn't correct. It's working for me now; if it doesn't work for you, please let me know. Never give up!

Friday, August 31, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

In this post I whined and complained     bitched and moaned mentioned that I've been sick quite a few times since I started The Job.

For a while now, I've had a urinary tract infection that won't go away. My doctor finally narrowed down the problem this week: it's one of those creepy bacteria things that's hard to kill because it's resistant to most medications.

I've had two shots in my bottom (one for each cheek so they're equally sore), and I'm taking gigantic pills.

In that post, I also wrote about callers who think that I'm an automated system. Last week a woman yelled at me––she didn't know she was yelling at ME––because she thought I wasn't a person. She shouted, I jut want to talk to a real person and not this robot. 

I assure you, ma'am, said I, that I am a real person.

She apologized and explained that she thought I was the automated system. Recently, I had a reason to call our company's automated system. I listened to the voice of the woman and thought, I DO sound a bit like her––not robotic, but the sound of our voices is similar, along with the way that we pronounce words.

I wonder if she knows the difference between who and whom. If not, I'll have to educate her.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

I saw a woman at Target with a Yorkie in her shopping cart. I assure you that Franklin and Penelope would not tolerate sitting in a cart. They'd run to the steaks and rip open all the packages.

Wednesday, August 29, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Here I am, finally checking out the blogosphere, and I found an email from fishducky, who was worried about me because I live in Jacksonville, Florida.

I found out we'd had a mass shooting on Sunday when I received a text message from my oldest sister that said "Hope you weren't at Jacksonville Landing today." I had no idea what was going on. I turned on the TV and whoopie! we'd made MSNBC because a guy at a gaming tournament shot and killed two people, shot and wounded nine others, and then killed himself.

I usually spend Sundays with the Wooters man, but on this particular afternoon, I had shopping to do. I've been to the Landing on the St. John's River a total of once, I think in 2009.

I emailed Willy Dunne Wooters and said

Oh Willy boy. I'm so glad I know you aren't the kind of person who would go to a gaming tournament at the landing.

He replied:

These kids grew up playing shooting games and listening to NRA telling them how cool it is to carry around semi-automatic guns with laser sights. What could go wrong?

Of course, the shooting didn't happen because a particular kind of person goes to gaming tournaments. It could have occurred just as easily at the Target where I browsed.

We walk in danger. We sleep in danger. We also walk and sleep in safety most of the time. We could be even safer if we ever have a president, senators, and representatives who don't kowtow to the NRA.


IF that ever happens, then maybe, just maybe, I'll never see my city on the news again––except when we have a hurricane, or maybe because something good happens here because miracles happen every day.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Friday, August 17, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Fortunately, I don't get palmetto bugs in the house very often. However, last week I had a strange encounter with one of the nasty "sewer roaches."

The dogs and I got up one morning to find a palmetto bug that wasn't moving in the hall outside my bedroom door. Penelope headed toward it to check it out. I said "no" because I was afraid she'd eat it.

After I let the dogs out, I went back to get rid of the deceased palmetto. I took a big wad of toilet paper and picked him up to flush him down the toilet.

Suddenly he wiggled, flew out of the toilet paper (I wasn't holding it very tightly), and flew into the hall bathroom toilet to try out his back crawl. I hurried to flush him away.

He surprised me! He'll probably make his way through the sewer system to terrorize someone else.

I'm sure many of you join me to grieve the loss of Aretha Franklin. We saw her once. We went to the inaugural celebration for Bill Clinton (first time he was elected). Ms. Franklin was one of the performers. The crowd was so large and we were so far back that it was difficult to see Michael Jackson and LL Cool J, among others.

But I could see Aretha Franklin off in the distance. She wore a gigantic fur coat and stood out in so many ways.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Thursday, August 9, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I can't believe it's been more than a month since I've blogged.

I've been ill more often since I started working. I suppose it's all the exposure to other people and the environment, which is not too clean. The restrooms are cleaned during the day, but by evening they're pretty nasty. I wash my hands thoroughly, of course. When everything is kinda dirty, washing only does so much good.

The people who clean come around with those dusting thingies on long poles. They dust the top of the area around the desks, which serves to push the dirt onto the desks. I keep paper towels and a cleaning product in my desk drawer so I can give my desk regular cleanings. Although I have my "own" work area, I know other people use it when I'm not there. Heaven only knows what illnesses they leave on my keyboard.

One time I returned to work to find that someone had left used napkins in my top drawer!

I swear that place was cleaner when I started working there, not so very long ago. I'm certain that the bathrooms were cleaned more frequently. However, the people who use the bathrooms are a problem, too. I'm shocked by the number of people who can't be bothered to flush the toilet and who throw trash on the bathroom floor. What the hell?????

This evening I stopped at my favorite Mexican restaurant for a quick and inexpensive meal. I met a new server named Anaia, or maybe it's spelled Anaya. I'll have to ask her. She's from Colombia and has only been in the U.S. for four months.

Her English is good, but she said she needs to learn more words. I tried to use my limited Spanish to explain that one word can have multiple meanings and the meanings can vary based on the part of the country in which one lives.

I used "buggy" as an example. In the South, a buggy is a shopping cart. Then there's the baby buggy, which we don't see too often because it's been replaced by the stroller. Someone who is described as buggy might be considered loco. And if you have lots of cucarachas, your home is buggy.

One kind of strange thing has been happening at work when I take phone calls. I've been asked multiple times if I'm "real." Some people seem to think that I sound like an automated system. I'm taking it as a compliment because the first person who said it told me he asked because my voice is so perfect.

My co-workers confirmed that I pronounce words precisely and clearly. I guess it's a habit left from my days as a debater.

I leave you for now. I'll try not to let another month go by before I blog again.

Infinities of love,

The Real Janie Junebug

Thursday, July 5, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Yes, I know yesterday was July 4th, but I'm writing this yesterday so my title is appropriate.

Here's what I've decided to do about Woody Allen movies:

I'm not going to stop watching the movies he made that I love, such as Annie Hall, Manhattan, Radio Days, Hannah and Her Sisters, and Midnight in Paris. Art can transcend the artist.

However, I'm not going to watch any movies that he makes in the future. I'm also not going to purchase any of his movies on DVD.

I believe Dylan Farrow, who has a very specific recollection of him molesting her when she was a child. I don't care that he was acquitted. So was O.J. Simpson.

Her brother Ronan also stands by her, and he played a big part in breaking the Harvey The Rapist news (I'll be writing more about that very soon).

I'm going to continue watching movies made by Harvey Wienerstein's company because I don't think he'll ever make another movie––may he rot in prison with Bill Cosby.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Franklin, Penelope, and I are quite miserable because of the fireworks.

Wednesday, July 4, 2018


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Don't get upset or worried. I've never been raped or attaacked.

When I was younger, I got a lot of catcalls. Men came on to me in the grocery store even when I had a toddler with me and was wearing my wedding ring.

The "interest" from men was the worst when I was a reporter. Sometimes men I interviewed made suggestive remarks. A couple of guys followed me out to my car and didn't want to stop talking, apparently in the hope that I'd be so interested that I'd follow them to their beds.

A publisher once grabbed me by the arm––roughly––and I gave him holy hell in front of the entire newsroom and told him to never touch me again. He was quite respectful and careful after that. However, this anecdote doesn't mean that I think all women can get out of such situations as easily as I did. I wasn't worried about losing my job. I wasn't worried that I wouldn't be promoted.

In fact, when I applied for a different job several years later, the office manager called that publisher, who told the office manager that I had more integrity than anyone else he'd ever worked with.

My mind is on #METOO and it has been for quite some time. I have no problem with giving up reruns of Bill Cosby's sitcom because I didn't watch them anyway, but what do I do about the Woody Allen movies I love? What about Harvey Weinstein movies? Am I still able to separate the artist from the art?

On that note, I want to repeat a post I wrote a long time ago. I'll also be following up on this subject, so my #METOO will be continued. And if you'd like to share #METOO stories in a guest post on my blog, please email me at

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

I promised you a work of art that achieves transcendence despite its creepiness factor and here it is: Manhattan, starring Woody Allen, Diane Keaton, and Mariel Hemingway.

LOVE this movie.

The glory of Gershwin, the sweet loveliness of young Mariel Hemingway, the skyline of our beautiful city. This film is a love affair with New York, in glorious black and white.

Its creepiness factor? Woody Allen's character, Isaac, is having an affair with 17-year-old Tracy, played by the oh-so-innocent looking Mariel. It become even more creepy knowing that Woody had an affair with his now wife when she was quite young (she's still very young), and she grew up with Allen as the father figure in her life. 

Who has an affair with the daughter of his longtime girlfriend with whom he's had a child and lets Mama find out when she discovers nude photos of her daughter in her "husband's" apartment?

Woody Allen.

We all know it. We know it's wrong. But somehow most of us look past it (it's o.k. Mia we still love you) and we still love his films.

I am extraordinarily fond of Annie Hall. Was Diane Keaton ever more beautiful? La di da, la di da.

But it's Manhattan that I truly adore. 

It's magic.

I read on IMDB that Woody offered to make another picture for free for Universal if they would shelve Manhattan. He supposedly thought it was terrible and the worst thing he had ever done.

I hope he got over it, and if he didn't, then I disrespectfully disagree with him.

Isaac Davis: Chapter One. He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion. Eh uh, no, make that he, he romanticized it all out of proportion. Better. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin. Uh, no, let me start this over. 
Isaac Davis: Chapter One: He was too romantic about Manhattan, as he was about everything else. He thrived on the hustle bustle of the crowds and the traffic. To him, New York meant beautiful women and street smart guys who seemed to know all the angles. Ah, corny, too corny for, you know, my taste. Let me, let me try and make it more profound. 

It's profound, Isaac.

Splendor in the skyline, glory in the concrete. I love New York. And it just doesn't get any better than Rhapsody in Blue.

I published this post on Sept. 21, 2010. Prior to writing this defense, I wrote a post about One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest that you can read HERE if you're so inclined.

Mariel Hemingway in Manhattan