After perusing your comments from the what-bad-food-do-you-like post, I was relieved to see that so many of you like to eat horrific things. I'd hate to be alone in my poor diet.
Yesterday I left here early, which you can imagine is my strong suit, as I am such a morning person. Embracing the morning. The way one would embrace a rabid opossum. But I did, I left early, and screamed on over to the car repair place, which someone at work recommended because the guy is honest. I got my car fixed by this guy six months ago and he gave me a good deal on what was wrong with my car. He'd even called me at work and said, "We can get away with not whoo-dee-whooing the blee de blee, if you want, save you some cash. Okay?" I liked that about him.
So I dropped my car off yesterday, so he could put my sideview mirrors back on. Ned was already there waiting for me, seeing as I was five minutes late and who do you think was likely delighted with me, because he wasn't expected at WORK or anything. But he acted like my lateness was just fine, and drove me to work.
Ned's shoulder has been smarting for several days now. He assumed he did it lifting weights, and the answer to that is stop lifting effing weights. My father has something he lives by called the No-Maintence Policy, and dad is 942 and fit as a fiddle. You just wanna smack him. (Actually his birthday was day before yesterday, and he turned 67. Which suddenly doesn't seem very old.) (Which is depressing.)
But really. He'll eat all those things you guys listed yesterday IN ONE DAY, and lie around and get zero exercise, and the doctor is always all, "You're perfect!" And then there'll be a report about how Vitamin C gives you cancer or whatever, and Dad will say, "See? Zero Maintenance Policy."
Am hoping I have his genes. Seeing as everyone on the other side drops over from the cancer.
So, Ned's shoulder has been hurting, and yesterday on the way to work, he couldn't really even drive using that arm. I mean, he was in agony. "The thing is, it's getting worse," he said. And that is why I spent the whole ride to work telling Ned he should go to the doctor.
Midmorning, he wrote to tell me he'd made an appointment, and it was right next door to where I was having Fun No Car Lunch with all my coworkers. So Ned joined us and got to meet Sarah the Poet, and Deb Downer, and my boss who he'd already met anyway so now they go way back, and my cute young competent coworker who is two decades younger than me and way mature-er, and also this curly-haired woman we just hired who I find fascinating.
Every once in awhile I get a coworker who I get fascinated with, the way Tallulah used to be fascinated with Henry. This one is pretty and she is a singer and she is super cool and I just kind of want to sit at her desk and watch what she does next. Would that seem weird?
I just looked at the post I just linked to about Talu and Hen. My petspeak was hardly down pat.
Anyway, Ned got to meet all my people, and I know he's wanted to meet Sarah the Poet for quite some time, because she is a big fancy poet who has published a ton of books and wins awards out her yang all the time. If she wanted to, she could carry all her awards around like how when one movie wins a ton of Oscars they show some idiot carrying them all. Afterward, Ned and I talked about how if WE were super-successful fancy poets, all we'd ever DO is talk about how super-successful and fancy we are.
"I'd be wearing my Ask Me About My Poetry Awards t-shirt," Ned said.
But in fact she DOESN'T go around talking about how fancy she is, and I think it's because she is totally humiliated because I pointed out to her that her poems don't rhyme. I don't even know how she's won ONE award. Is the thing.
Oh. But Ned. His shoulder. It might be a torn rotator cuff. Which might require surgery. Which makes Ned not pleased.
When he picked me up from work, with his one useless arm, as we drove to pick up my car that cost
SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS,
(yes, you heard me. They TOLD me it'd be three or four hundred, and then it was SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY. I had to put some of it on a credit card and some on my debit card. Because SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DING-DANG DOLLARS) (for SIDEVIEW MIRRORS)
I asked Ned, "So. You gonna go home tonight and raise the roof?" "No," said Ned, as he winced over the steering wheel. "You gonna throw the discus repeatedly, like you like to do?"
"You planning a chicken dance marathon?"
"Did you want to help me paint my ceiling?"
"Hey, listen to what's on! Come on! Y-M-C-A!"
Ned seemed kind of cranky when he dropped me at my car. And I seemed SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS LIGHTER IN MY LOAFERS.
I know that made zero sense. But come ON. GEEZ!
So that summed up my day. I did freelance work last night, which, you know, good. Bring on the supplementary dollars. I proofread about statistics, for a change, and riveting? Woo!
Tonight Ned and I are going to the movies, and I swear to you he plotted out already how he's gonna eat popcorn with his left hand. "You're gonna have to sit to my left this time, and we'll put the popcorn in the middle, and..." He's got it all strategized. ("Strategery.") Poor Ned. Poor cuffy Ned.
I guess I don't have anything else to tell you and am certain you are sad. Because I haven't kept you here hostage for a hundred minutes or anything.
Now go take on the day. (I wish I could tell you how bad I abhor Dr. Laura.)
P.S. Because I haven't said enough already, I am on the American Dingo Club page on Facebook. I just wanted to tell you that so my loserness would be 100% sealed. But also, today they posted a picture of another American Dingo. Whoever wrote me here three years ago to say, "Edsel sure looks like an American Dingo" could not be more righter. Can I say "strategery" again?
amerkin dingo do be like edz