Sometimes, I get so busy telling you one story, like about Ned's horrid day, that I forget to tell you the other things I meant to say, and really this whole blog is like we're at dinner and I'm dominating the conversation and you're smiling fakely and painfully, waiting for dessert so you can go.
We were in one of those long booth situations, and next to our small table was another small table, and this couple was dressed to the nines, because technically it's a really nice restaurant and there were Ned and me in jeans like we owned the place. Anyway, the dude was going all out, with a bottle of wine at the table, and asking her questions about herself ("Why do you think you're such an introvert?" I can't imagine an introvert wanting to answer that.), and the point is, girlfriend had the highest, squeakiest, most awful Minnie Mouse voice humanly possible. Ned kept giving me knowing looks because they were .0003 inches from us and we couldn't say a thing, but he knew I was thinking mean thoughts.
I've heard you should record yourself to make sure your voice isn't ludicrous, but I think her voice may be unrecordable, like a dog whistle or something.
See. I wasn't gonna talk about ANY of that and here we are seven hours later.
But what I DID mean to say was at that dinner, Ned got something or other--maybe a fish?--that had pesto on it.
"Is that pesto?"
I paused to eat my rainbow trout. It didn't SEEM gay, but maybe when that trout was alive he was all wearing short shorts and YMCA-ing and so forth. "Pesto is the quiche of the '80s," I said, because it's important I quote When Harry Met Sally as often as possible, and that is ABSOLUTELY less annoying than having a helium voice. Shut up.
After I explained to poor Ned that I wasn't, for once, quoting Sex and the City and why does anyone like me, Ned asked, "Then what's the quiche of the aughts? What about the teens?"
Well. That is a brilliant question. I kind of feel like cilantro was the quiche of the '90s. But the aughts and teens? What do you think?
The other thing I forgot to tell you from this weekend, and clearly I packed several lifetimes into this holiday weekend, was at my friend Charlie's birthday party, there was a young woman there with a kid. The kid was, like two to nine years old, and Ned showed him the pool table, which led to the kid hitting himself in the face with one of those hard pool balls, and what if my Very Exciting News were that Ned and I were stampeding out to adopt? How quickly would you call Social Services?
While her child impaled himself on pool sticks, I talked to the mom about her life and her earrings (she never wears matching ones. She had a carousel on one side. Yes, a carousel. And on the other a dinosaur. Cute when you're 24 or whatever, but if I did that I'd look like dementia was setting in.). Finally she started telling me about her mom, who after so many years of marriage had finally ended it with this young girl's dad. Her mom had just TAKEN OFF, and moved West, where she managed to actually find another man and live with him outside the Grand Canyon.
The whole gist of the story was that who knew at her advanced age, with the cobwebs growing out her nethers, that her brittle old bones could take the weight of a man on them. It was such an amazing Grandma Moses thing, her mom finding new romance at this stage of life.
Suddenly I was struck with an awful thought. "How, um, old is your mom?"
"Mom? Oh, wow, sheeeeeeeeee's...47? Forty-seven or -eight, yeah."
You have no idea how tormented I was while she dragged out the "sheeeeeeeee's." Please say 92. Please say 92. For the love of--crap.
And I can't remember if I told you this already, it feels like I have, but I have a friend in LA who is gorgeous. She runs marathons all the time like it's fun and she was pretty even BEFORE she started doing that rather odd thing, and anyway she recently found herself back on the market so she put an ad on OK Cupid.
Have I told you this?
She got a message from a 33-year-old guy, which, woooooo! "You are beautiful," he wrote, which is true. "I just wondered. Are you still sexually active?"
I know I need to get past the Price is Right losing horn, but I love it so.
Are you still sexually active. Oh my GOD. "I was just wondering. Are you still lucid?" "Are you still able to chew solids?" "Are you still alive?"
That pretty much wraps up all the dumb things I wanted to tell you, other than it's my Pal From MA's birthday on the 30th, and my whole life there hasn't been one single May 30 that I haven't thought, "Oh! It's Pal's birthday!" Anyway, I was cognizant enough, and sexually active enough, to remember to go on Amazon and get her a little gift and I won't tell you what because she reads me.
The POINT, however, is once I'd placed my order, Amazon suggested I might like these other items:
What. In the Sam Holy Hill. Do you think I got her that they suggested I might like wood toilets and dead vacuum-sealed rabbits? What? What did I get her? How scared do you think Pal is to get her gift?
Okay, I'm off. To creek oldly through my day. But tell me what the quiche of now is. It's been haunting me.