I had one of those run-aroundy weekends, so I didn't get to write you. Were you sad? Did every second feel like an hour without me?
My "Dear Ned" anniversary post, my Very Special Bye Bye Pie Dear Ned anniversary post, I wrote on one of my lunch hours at some point last week. I sent it to Ned ahead of time, just to make sure he was down with me splerking my feelings all over the world wide web.
"That is just, wow... That's the sweetest thing ever. I love you too, June," Ned told me, after he read it. And he literally called me "June," which he sometimes does just to be obnoxious.
"I'm glad you are down with it," I told him. "Dating me is kind of public. It's like dating JLo without the ass."
Really, though, with this Prednisone, he may soon get the ass. Nice moon face I got going. Tomorrow I taper down to two pills, and am hoping the love bloat soon will be making another run somewhere else.
My Puff Daddy impression. Hope it's going the way of the JLo relationship. See what I did, there?
Am on a retainer. Of water.
Looking good, is the fluid-filled message I am throwing down. Prednisone is a funny thing. A swelly, funny thing.
So, to recap, on Friday night I work work work worked, because in addition to my fake job, I have taken on two freelance projects. There is nothing more relaxing than coming home from a full workweek and getting on your computer and working for four solid hours.
After I was done, I squished over to Ned's place with my fluids and my retention and sexily went to the pub near him to get something to eat. Because also Prednisone has made me ravenous. I am like a raven. Who is hungry. Lenore! Go get me a hoagie!
We sat up at the bar and got something called Blarney Dip, which let me tell you is likely heart healthy. At the end of the bar sat a girl named Doris and oh that girl looked nice. Also at the end of the bar were some kids playing Jango or Jongo or Jingo or whatever that game is called, where you have a big tower of blocks and you pull one out and try not to knock the whole tower over. It's very Marcia and her house of cards.
The kid instigating the game had on a tshirt that read "This is what awesome looks like," and he was kind of right. He tried to get the whole bar to play, and he looked over at me. "YOU want to play. I can tell."
And I did.
I remember hearing Craig Ferguson talking about playing a lot of Jongo or Jingo or Jingle or WHATVER THE FUCK when he was in rehab. I forget why. I just know that I love everything that comes out of the mouth of fricking Craig Ferguson and I hope you are in agreement with me on that. He is da Scottish bomb.
So I got up and played the Jingman or whatever, and had a great time till I WAS THE ASS who pulled out a piece and sent the whole game flying. Into the Guinness of some innocent bystander. Seriously, dawgs, I musta knocked 10 pieces of J-i-n-g-o into his beer. Felt horrible. And also terribly amused. As am horrid person.
On Saturday I got up with Dick Whitman's mom, who in case you did not know, I love and adore more than anything on the planet. Seriously, you have no idea how cool DW's mom is.
I have slits for eyes. What I am right now is not pretty. This did not matter to DW's mom, who I may or may not have mentioned is da not-Scottish bomb extraordinaire. We went to this restaurant that I always love, and I got the pretzel-encrusted salmon salad, which by the way would marry if that were legal. June Pretzel-Encrusted Salmon Salad. Has a poetic ring. And would make a nice monogrammed towel.
I also ran into my friend and coworker Jane West there, who was eating with her elusive husband who even though I've known Jane West for more than three years, I had never met cause he's not so much with the socializing and hanging out. But there he was at the restaurant, and I stampeded over and said how exciting it was to meet him and that all this time I thought he might be George Glass and that Jane West was a sad single with a made-up man and yay here he was, finally, and he was all, "...And you are?"
See. There's the part where I did not introduce self. There's the part where just assumed he'd know who old Moon Pie Face was when she stormed over to him and commenced the chatter.
I have already referenced The Brady Bunch twice in this sensical post.
Finally, though, the evening arrived and Ned and I had a big evening planned to celebrate our year of dating. I know you've heard this a thousand times, but like every other couple marking a year together, we went to the burlesque show.
Because what's more romantic than watching Ned look at pasties?
Really, though, it was romantic, in a way. Okay, it wasn't, but it was kind of very sexy and also (and I abhor this word) empowering. Because this particular show, called Purrlesque (and yes, I just vomited, as well. Purrlesque. Shut UP) was filled with many sexy women doing many risque things, but here's the best part. Not a one of them had a perfect body. There was every shape of woman, and some were downright fat, and yet each one was so totally sexy.
I have heard annoying people say, "It's really all about confidence," and no it isn't. Shut the front door. But after last night, and seeing that? Okay, it's a lot more about confidence than you'd think. Because those women BROUGHT IT, and man, they all seemed absolutely beautiful while they were parading around.
In unrelated news, need more pasties. Stat.
It was a fabulous crowd, at that thing, by the way. There were drag queens wearing wonderful '50s netted skirts, there were regular pervy couples like us, there were old gay men, and MAN, there were tons of your lesbians at that thing. Biker lesbians, no-nonsense Camilla Parker-Bowles lesbians, young lesbians, hot wearing-red-beehive-wigs-and-tiaras lesbians. I mean, if you were Lebanese, as Ned would say, you were at that event last night.
So I am telling you. If Purrlesque (gag) comes to your town, go.
After we looked at hoots, Ned and I returned to the site of our first date.
Oh, and Ned gave me flowers. Beautiful sunflowers with little purpley fluers as well. Which I would get up and photograph for you but see rest of my life re: effort.
Attached please find a photo I tried to take in the dark restaurant of us and my nose, which I would like to think is bloated due to the drugs. Ned wore exactly the same thing he wore to our first date, down to the socks, and what I would like to know is why he remembers what socks he wore.
So, good weekend. Today we saw Hyde Park on Hudson, which stars Bill Murray being FDR, and it was good in a Monica-Lewinski-in-1935 kind of a way. I was worried sick they were going to make my beloved Eleanor Roosevelt look bad, and I will CUT A BITCH--I will BLOAT A BITCH--who does anything to Eleanor, but they were good to her.
"I'm kind of thinking no movie would dare tread on Eleanor," said Ned, who I have been dating for a year, in case you didn't know.
Anyway. That sums it up. Hope your weekend was just as good. Did you see any women gyrating around with pasties? Anyone? Was that just me...?