The part where I sprained my ankle then had to hobble in front of Area Guy is 100% my fault, and I'd dearly like to be able to blame someone else. Because if you're GONNA hurt yourself, the only positive is that you can at least elicit sympathy from people, but once I tell you how I did it you'll be all, "Oh. Yeah, that was so her fault."
On Friday night, I went to Ned's, as I am wont to do.
The thing about Ned is, after work he almost always comes home and works out. There's a gym in his building, and he also rides his bike, and you'd think some of his healthy living would rub off on me but basically I sat around after work eating blue corn chips and watching The Golden Girls till he called me. So what usually happens is, it'll be 8:30 at night and I get over there just as Ned is finally eating. Up there are eggs and potatoes, and bread he baked. I am not making that up.
He told me the other night that it's been a year since he's eaten anything packaged. I thought wistfully of my nacho chips. Which by the way were not created by me using a mortar and pestle to grind up the blue corn. In case that's what you were picturing.
While he ate his unpackaged food, I looked through Vermont Country Store catalog. Ned bought me something from there for Christmas, so now he gets the catalog, and saved it for me to puruse.
Dudes. I SO WANT this obnoxious chenille bedspread. I'd get the blue, believe it or not, and no one thinks I'm really leaving pink and embracing Tiffany Blue, but I am. It's my new color. Anyway my gramma had this kind of bedspread and basically anything she had is something I want now. I also want a screen door with my initial in the middle, which I have wanted for quite some time and didn't even realize she had till I saw a photo of her door not long ago. I was all, "So THAT'S why I want a screen door with my initial in it!"
Also? A cuckoo clock. What can I tell you?
Anyway, it was all well and good and I was having a fine time at Ned the unpackaged eater's house, till someone interesting walked by his window. He lives downtown, Ned does, and even though he's high up we can often hear people talking as they walk by, and often they.are.riveting. My favorite quote so far is the guy who said, "You show them bitches the love, them bitches take advantage." "He's right," Ned told me. Then I made him pay all my bills.
So this particular guy was shouting across the street to someone. "I just need six dollars, buddy. That's all I need. Six dollars and I can get the train to Charlotte." Naturally I stampeded to the window to see this exchange. "ABNER!"
The hapless man he was talking to actually gave the Charlotte guy the six dollars. "Thank you, buddy," said the Charlotte guy, and here's the thing. I wanted to watch him to see if he really headed off to the train station, which I did for awhile till he was out of my sight, and that?
Is when I climbed up on Ned's ottoman, which is not a euphemism, nor was it particularly bright. Because it did no good (too many trees to see the guy), and when I stepped DOWN, I stepped on Ned's boot, which he had HAPLESSLY AND THOUGHTLESSLY left next to said ottoman (see how I'm working up to a Blame Ned situation?) and my ankle twisted.
Oh, son of a bitch Carl Rove god DAMMIT son of a--did I already say son of a bitch? Cause THAT HURT.
I don't even remember much after that, just searing pain and Ned helping me to the couch and giving me an ice pack. It's not so bad today. I mean, I can walk on it, as long as I remember it's THERE, because if I step down wrong SON OF A BITCH CARL ROVE GODDAMMIT it hurts.
Despite my serious injury, I managed to make dinner for Ned last night before we went to an upbeat Tennessee Williams play. I made overcooked salmon and undercooked potatoes. Mmmm!
After, we went to this bar that, oh, guess what, was showing a basketball game that--well, I'll let you guess. Out of the two of us, who do you think suggested we catch the end of that game? Cause I had bets on that game, man.
We got there, and it was packed. I know! Ten o'clock on a Saturday night? What's WITH these people? And as I'm limping like Quasimodo to a spot, who do I see but Area Guy? In case you just got here or have amnesia or something, Area Guy is this British man who owns a midcentury modern furniture store in town and to say he's handsome is like saying Nancy Grace leans toward the dramatic.
"Hey, how you doing?" he asked me, all Britishly. And see. Here's the problem. Ned caught me feeling all squealy about it. "You know, he predates you," I told him, but he was having none of it. I mean, if the fish and chips came down, and British Area Guy came up to me and said how 'bout a wank, I would say no because I love Ned.
Is a "wank" British for sex or is it British for sex for one? I really don't know. If he asked me for sex for one it'd be sort of awkward.
Anyway, it didn't come up because I was lurching around like I had a bloody headband and a fife. Sexy!
So that was pretty much my highlight. I'm hobbled. I'm half the man I used to be. We're on our way now to see a Jeffrey Dahmer documentary, I am not making that up, and I hope the popcorn is not literally made out of our fathers. After that, we're having dinner with my friend Marty Martin and his girlfriend Kayeeee, and what I did NOT know is I scheduled that dinner during a Very Important Sporting Event, and HOW MANY GODDAMN EFFING CARL ROVE BASKETBALL GAMES ARE THERE IN THE WORLD? God.
Nevertheless, Ned is attending, because if it weren't for him I would not be crippled today.
I hope your weekend was equally as stunning, and less sprainy.