Thank you all for your Ned questions in yesterday's comments. They were thought-provoking and insightful and often stupid. I did, speaking of the stupid ones, get a kick out of Hulk's questions. Why do I enjoy ludicrous Hulk?
If you have MORE questions for Ned, please do not ask them here. Go to yesterday's post. I refuse to schlep back and forth between here and there when I cut and paste these all for Ned. It's all for you, Ned! That's only funny if you saw The Omen.
I decided that Ned'd do better if I mailed him all the questions and he could mull them over and compose his thoughtful answers to whatever ones he picks. (How much you wanna bet he skims over the "What are your intentions for our June" one?) When we first met, he used to compose his emails to me in Word, then cut and paste them into email, to make sure they were just so. Ned's carefulness is the cutest thing I ever encountered. You will be shocked to hear I'd answer his emails 14 seconds later, slapping down whatever horrid thought I had right then.
Speaking of horrid, which leads us to jazz, we partied down with my pal Jo last night, as we were celebrating the momentous occasion of her birth just 23 years ago. See what I did, there? I shaved some years. Not that she needs that, because bitch looks incredible.
She'd mentioned this album from her youth, where each of the instruments has a name, like Max the Sax. She'd lost hers, and always missed it, so I found it online, because I am the coolest friend ever.
I also got her this card, and let me tell you this fascinating piece of info. I really have a new favorite color, and it's this shade of blue. I KNOW! I've been a pink girl all my life, and I do not know if this is a phase, or if the traumatic events of the past five years have shifted my brain, or what all. I'm just telling you I gravitate to this color now, which I guess we could call Tiffany blue. Let's. Let's call it Tiffany blue, as it may encourage people to give me things in Tiffany boxes.
See. This is why sometimes this blog takes me forever. I had to go around and photograph all the Tiffany blue things I've purchased in the last year or so. But as you can see, there is a theme. Also I should state, for the record, that the first jewelry shot that includes those beautiful blue earrings sitting to the side? Those were given to me by Faithful Reader Hibiscus Wilson for my birthday, and I find EVERY REASON POSSIBLE to wear them.
How the hell did I get on this tangent?
Oh. Jo's party. Right.
So, my pal Kit was there, and I guess I don't need to tell you I loved her glasses. So much so that I took another of my professional shots of it. I TOTALLY NEED a better iPhone. Yes, I know. I can't have one. BUT IT'S FOR MY ART!
In fact, lots of people, including my hair, were present for Jo, because she is da bomb and everyone loves her.
We were all having a great time, except for one thing. The thing that officially makes us old.
"Does it have to be so LOUD in here?" I groused to Ned, who'd had the worst day ever and was starving to death and probably just wanted to be in a dark room opening a vein.
We ALL complained about the noise, because it's a big open room, and the band felt the need to turn it up to 11, and even better, they were jazz. Jazz. Is there anything I hate more than jazz?
Okay, people who say "pin number." But nothing else.
Okay, the place down the street with the name Workout Anytime. You work out during your workout. Why does God see fit to put irksome things in my path?
That's it, though. Just those things, then jazz.
Monty Python.
BUT RIGHT AFTER THAT, JAZZ.
Cilantro.
Okay, anyway. The point is, I tried to veedeotape the band for you, so you could share in my suffering, because what's the point of suffering unless everyone joins you, but all you can hear is me saying I'm in hell and Ned saying no I'm NOT in hell, and I like how he gets to decide this.
Am I always that loud? Is it just because the phone/veedeo thing is right next to me, or do I speak in my outdoor, hello-I'm-on-Broadway-and-you're-in-the-last-row voice all the time?
The point is? Good bash. And happy birthday, Jo, which I just mistyped "Ho" and slayed my own self.
June. In hell.
