Do we have to change her name now, too, or can she keep being ...kitty? Kitty of Ned.
I have another busy day all of a sudden, and for someone who wasn't even gonna be here I certainly got a lot of living packed in. Last night Ned and I went to Winston-Salem, for a change, because my friend Charlie had an exhibition of his art, and it was cool. He took a laptop, for example, painted it white, and covered it in "Hi, My Name Is" stickers, and they all said, "Hi, My Name is Porn."
Now I wish I had bought it, with all my dollarses.
Speaking of porn, I am sorry, person in Eastern Europe, that you probably didn't find what you were looking for when you came here after Googling "Older Hairy Women." Do people in Eastern Europe Google? Do they Gulag?I guess gulag is a Russian thing.
My point is, after we saw Charlie's art, we went to dinner (and then to the world's worst bar, where the bartender had a headband, and he was male, and also a tattoo of praying hands holding a rosary on his ribcage. Yes, we could see his ribcage, unfortunately).
Have I mentioned to you how important ordering is to Ned/...friend? It's like he's buying a condo every time he looks at a menu. There is not a waitperson in the Triad who hasn't been sent away so Ned can fret over the menu for a few more minutes.
"Have you decided already?" he asked, incredulous, as he always does when menu-looking takes me, oh, five minutes. I was getting the tomato bacon Parmesan soup, because who wouldn't, and the mandarin pecan salad with chicken on it.
"Oh, god! Look at that!" he'll say, as though his menu just offered six thousand dollars and the sexual favors of Kate Middleton.
"Oh! Oh! God! They have--oh, I don't know. Oh, god."
It's like Sophie's Choice at every meal.
"You know what I'm gonna have?" he asked, after the waitress had been over six times, changed shifts with someone else, taken a nap and written 17 sonnets, all titled "I hate the guy at table 23."
"WHAT?" I asked enthusiastically, hoping it would seal his decision.
"The grouper. I love grouper. Remember that grouper I had in May?" And sadly, I DO remember the grouper he had in May, because he's mentioned it as often as he mentions the nights of passion he had with Kate Middleton. Seriously, he'll be in the middle of some completely different activity, like conducting an orchestra or buying gum, and he'll be all, "GODDAMMIT that grouper was good."
So the deed was done, and the waitress, with a hankie at the ready for her sobfest should he send her away one more time, came back. "I'll have the grouper," said Ned.
"We're out of grouper."
Honestly, the Sistene Chapel, from start to finish, created less fuss than this pronouncement by our beleaguered waitress.
(Actually, she was kind of an annoying waitress. She was one of those, "Everything still okay?" every five minutes people.)
Ultimately, Ned/... ended up having stuffed chicken with angel hair pasta, and guess what?
"GODDAMMIT this is good!"
As we left the restaurant, "THAT WAS SO GOOD!"
This morning? "Did I mention that angel hair pasta was effing delicious?"
So I think it may have usurped the grouper. I will keep you posted.
Anyway, today I am using some of the spa gift card Ned gave me to have a manicure, then I have to scream home and clean the house, probably usurping said manicure, much like angel hair pasta, because Chris and Lilly and Ned are coming for a cookout tonight. Chris is making potato salad with stuff from his garden (he grows EXCELLENT mayonnaise), and they're bringing tomatoes they grew, and I am slapping hamburgers onto the fire. And when I say, "I," I mean Chris.
Anyway, I have to clean everything because I am a slob who sat in a chair and read a book all day while cobwebs and cat fur grew in every corner. Oh, and I took Iris to the vet yesterday because she's been peeing on the dog beds, the cat beds, my SUITCASE, throw rugs, you name it, and it turns out my poor girl has a (wait for it) urinary tract infection.
This whole time I assumed it was behavioral, and I feel so bad, since I know firsthand how awful those are. So she and I are both on antibiotics, and one of us flails and spits and claws when it's time for the medicine. Iris takes it nicely, though.
June, out. Sticking her landing. Because that was funny when you guys said that.