Tuesday, May 23, 2017


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

You didn't really think I'd continue the story of the two nine-year-old boys today, did you? No way. You have to wait. The world needs TIP TUESDAY.

I'm not editing now, so I have time to blog. I like blogging, but someone please send me a book to edit. I'm available for a reasonable price. Ask Willy Dunne Wooters. I'm what's known as a cheap date even if the invitation is to edit.

All right. That's enough self-advertising for now.

First, we discuss there. If I've edited anything for you, then you know I'm prone to telling my clients that there makes a poor subject for your sentence.

Example: There are police officers all over that crime scene.

Let's change it to Police officers are all over that crime scene. 

Can you think of a way to make it even better? I bet you can. How about using a stronger verb?

Second, let's talk about there's. There's makes me crazy because I see it used incorrectly all the time.


Example of use that makes me crazy: There's hikers climbing the mountain.

Is is singular. Hikers is plural. If you insist on using there as your subject, then please get your there's correct. How would you improve our sample sentence?

Okay. I think I've fussed enough for today. Somebody hurry up and hire me.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Thanks, fishducky!

Monday, May 22, 2017


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Two nine-year-old boys live in the house behind mine. They probably think I live in the house behind theirs, but nope! I was here before they were. My dogs have peed in the backyard enough that I can definitely claim this as OUR territory.

They're not identical twins,
but let's say they both look like this.

Now you might have noticed that I didn't mention that adults live in the house behind mine––because I swear to God no adults live there. It's the two nine-year-old boys.

I have seen a carousel of adults revolving around the house. They go in and out of the doors and talk on their cell phones in the yard behind MY backyard and blow cigarette smoke toward my house. I do not believe for one second that any of those adults live in that house. They just keep revolving and smoking and talking into cell phones.

Now, how do I know that the boys are nine years old, you might wonder. It's because they drove me so crazy one day that I yelled at them. I screeched, Where are your parents?

Er potter's nert ahm, they seemed to say. I'd heard everything else they'd been shouting for hours but when I asked them a question, suddenly they couldn't be heard.

I went over to the very tall privacy fence that somehow does not protect me from nine-year-old boys. I asked again, Where are your parents?

After three or so attempts at understanding them, they finally spoke loudly enough so I could hear them say, Our father's not home.

I used to be a newspaper reporter. I can conduct an interview with the best of them.

How old are you? I screamed.

Eventually their whispers wafted through the ether: We're nine years old.

Nine years old and they're at home alone on a school day––or what should have been a school day.

The words you dread as much as I dread nine-year-old boys: to be continued . . . 

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Friday, May 19, 2017


Hello. It is I, Penelope.

Mom Mom edited two books, so she ignored you and she ignored Franklin and me. We have not been fed or petted in weeks. Or perhaps months.

Mom Mom neglects me.
She treated us even worse during February when she went on a vacation to a place called the hospital. I do not know what she did on this vacation, but when she came home she was very tired. I think she went to that place to drink frozen margaritas. (So selfish!) It is true that Human Brother was here and he stroked my beautiful fur for hours, but Mom Mom has no reason to ever go away from us.

When Mom Mom came home, she said that she and Willy Dunne Wooters could not stand the odor emanating from the area rug in the living room. She and Daddy Dunne Wooters told me that the ammonia coming from the rug made their eyes burn and it was MY fault. I did not and still do not know what this statement meant.

This is what I say to Mom Mom
and that Daddy Dunne Wooters.

Get over it, Mom Mom.
And I tell you that Mom Mom is NOT the real
Lorelai Gilmore.
Daddy Dunne Wooters rolled up the living room rug to take it outside. A neighbor said he would like to have it. Mom Mom asked him how he could stand the odor. (Smart Ass Mom Mom!) He said that he had been in an accident and does not have a sense of smell.

I am glad the rug went to live in another house. It was ugly. (And Cheap. So Cheap!) (Bad Taste!)

Now the floor in the living room is made of wood. Sometimes when Mom Mom goes out, she comes home to find a puddle. Mom Mom says if I continue to leave puddles on the floor, I will have to go in the prison cell while she is gone.

I think I shall make two or three puddles the next time Mom Mom is gone because when I go in the prison cell, I get my Kong. It is always frozen and has peanut butter inside. (Delicious! So Delicious!)

Ha ha on Mom Mom.

That is all. Goodbye.

Mom Mom is The Queen of Grammar,
but I am The Queen of This House.

Monday, May 8, 2017


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Sam, who cares for my golden tresses, found her birth family. I didn't even know she was looking.

I'm going to see her tomorrow, so I hope she'll tell me more about the search.

For now, here's the link to a story that ran on a local TV station: https://goo.gl/FXU1Jq

I continue to edit!


Janie Junebug

Monday, May 1, 2017


Dear Hearts and Gentle People,

A to Z is over. May is here. I should be blogging again, but I'm not (unless you count this note as a blog post) because I have TWO, count 'em, TWO books to edit.

I am a diligent junebug. Franklin and Penelope are my faithful assistants, as always.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Thanks, fishducky!
I do love to make up words.

Friday, March 31, 2017


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Welcome one and all to the Cephalopod Coffeehouse, a cozy gathering of book lovers, meeting to discuss their thoughts regarding the works they enjoyed most over the previous month.  Pull up a chair, order your cappuccino and join in the fun. This blog hop is hosted by The Armchair SquidClick on the link to sign up and join us.

The best book that I finished this month is Mommy Tried To Kill Me: Why It's Never Too Early To Start Drinking In Paris by Suzy Soro.

Suzy Soro is my favorite celebrity I've "met" online (she's also the only one who has ever responded to my emails or to tweets in which I mention her). She's hilarious, and I wish she still blogged. When I learned she had a new book out, I bought it immediately.

Suzy and her sister Lindy spent parts of their childhood living in France with their mother, who had gotten divorced from their father after twenty-nine years of marriage, and later married a Frenchman named Jean. But now little Suzy and Lindy are all grown up, and their mother is not running around Paris with Jean (thank God because he's dead). But she has become a lady of elderly or at least older status, who can still pull what Suzy and Lindy call "The French-Face: an eye roll up to the left, an almost imperceptible shake of the head, and a contemptuous, dismissive shrug. I'm a standup comic: I can recognize signs of contempt from space."

So the older lady who can French-Face with the best of them is eighty-nine, refuses to live in the United States so she can be near Suzy and Lindy, she's fallen in her Paris home and she doesn't have one of those buttons to push to say I've fallen and I can't get up (let me clue you in on something: those buttons are worthless because when I worked in the nursing home, we played host to a load of people who had fallen and couldn't get up and they had the button but couldn't remember how to push it or maybe their thumbs got cut off when they fell), so someone scooped her up and took her to the hospital. Suzy and Lindy travel to Paris to see their mother, and Suzy stays on to clean out the apartment her mother has decided to sell and to help darling French-Face Mommy recover. 

This book is Suzy's memoir about her stay in Paris, doing the best she can to assist someone who does not want her assistance, and whose every conversation with Suzy "invariable devolves into what I'm doing wrong with my life, like how I never got a real job. And don't have a 401(k). Or at the very least, a husband with a real job and a 401(k)." Suzy also reveals plenty of interesting and unusual family secrets, including stories about her father's numerous wives.

Mommy Tried To Kill Me is poignant and Sorodonic (my combination of Soro and sardonic) by turns. When it gets too sad––as stories about elderly people who are injured and sinking into dementia must do, especially when they pick on the daughter who is doing her utmost to help out while freezing to death in Paris and trying to remember the French that has pretty much absented itself from her brain––you can count on Suzy to come up with a Sorokism (my combination of Soro, which means funny in some language other than French, and some sarcasm): "If parents want to hide something, they should attach it to their keys. They can never find those."

Mommy Tried To Kill Me: Why It's Never Too Early To Start Drinking In Paris earns The Janie Junebug Seal Of Highest Hilarical Tinged By Whimsy And Weirdness Approval.

You can purchase it on Amazon at https://goo.gl/zWy0Qy. You can also buy Suzy Soro's first book, Celebrity sTalker, on Amazon at https://goo.gl/9QgSvP, but you'll have to buy the Kindle version unless you want one of the four paperbacks they say are available for $59.99 and up. Or I'll consider selling my autographed copy of this hilarious book for about a million bucks. It's negotiable, but my rock-bottom price is $999,999.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Hey, you. Yeah, you, the person who read my post all the way to the end. The people who quit early are going to wonder where I am during April. Well, you are in the know if you read a tiny bit more. I don't blog during April because I leave the cruelest month to the A to Z-ers. I'm editing a book, and should have one or two more to work on soon. If you have a grammatical emergency or want to beg me to edit your book, please email me at dumpedfirstwife@gmail.com. I'll be back on blog patrol in May. Be there or be square.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Fishducky of fishducky, finally! sent me this link to a spelling test of sorts:


Click on the link and you'll find the pronunciations and definitions of twelve words contestants have needed to be able to spell to win the Scripps National Spelling Bee. Then you're given two possible spellings for the word. Choose the one you think is correct.

If you like, you can share your score in your comment, or not.

Shall I tell you my score? Maybe you should try to guess. A hint: I did not get all twelve correct.

This test is easier than being in an actual spelling bee (not that I was ever in one) because you have the choices spelled correctly for you to choose. You don't have to start from scratch.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

Here's Rebecca Sealfon, my all-time favorite National Spelling Bee winner: