So, get all four pair of glasses, then, because they're all working for me. Was that the general consensus? I tried to leave a comment last night saying, OKAY! I GET IT! STOP! I WON'T GET THE GLASSES! But of course it went to spam. Because I love Typepad. Is what I do. Actually, what I wrote was, "I know you've been sworn and I have read your complaint." Then I gazed lovingly at myself.
Does anyone know what that's from? "I know you've been sworn and I have read your complaint." The first person to guess gets something inflatable that I will never actually send you.
In other news, last night Ned and I tried to cook, which I will tell you about in a minute, in all its disasterousness, but first lemme tell you a story Ned told me while we ate chips and salsa for dinner.
Last week, Ned and I left his apartment together, but he went left and I went right, because I was going to the guest parking lot and he was going to the fancy I-stay-here parking lot. (One time the security guard there asked him, "You stay here?" and we talked about how black people often say "stay" while white people say "live." "Oh, I stay at Fifth and Cherry Apartments." You know you've heard that. Then we talked about how despite all efforts, there's still a big cultural divide in this country. And we were very deep and smoked pipes and appeared on Face the Nation.)
Oh my god I cannot tell a simple story.
After Ned got to the ground floor of the labyrinth that is his building, he saw way down the breezeway a hot woman. "Wow! Who is THAT?" he thought, or whatever awful thing it is men think when they ogle women.
The woman? Was me.
Discuss: Do I enjoy that sweet story or do I get annoyed that Ned was looking at other women, even though other women were me? Am currently in both camps.
Anyway, so last night, Ned the Ogler and I decided to grill out. We'd decided this earlier in the week, actually, because my pal Daniel Boone was coming over to put a fan in my attic, because he's handy that way and my peeling ceilings are bugging him, but then he had to work so he stood us up but we said, You know, we can still have a barbecue even without D and his Boone.
"Let's not make hamburgers this time," said Ned, whose cooking skills are somewhere near the level of mine. Like me, he has approximately two dishes he makes for himself, and most of THAT is cooking vegetables. Which I shouldn't scoff at, because I would not know how to make a sweet potato, which he makes 29 times a week. I mean, GOD made the sweet potato. I dunno how he did that, either. But I don't know how to PREPARE one, is what I should say.
Ned got out his How to Cook Everything book I got him last year, and never have I seen someone utilize a gift I got them more than that. Well. In 2001, I got Marvin the first iPod that ever came out and he used the SHIT out of that. But this book comes in at a close second.
One time my friend Marianne got me a 50-cent pencil that looked like a cigarette, and every time we went out, I'd whip that pencil out my purse and pretend to smoke it. I'd do it all classy sometimes, and other times I'd hold it in my mouth and squint my eyes like I was some kind of tough broad. Which I so am.
The point is, Marianne always said it was the best 50 cents she ever spent. That's kind of how I feel about Ned's cookbook, which did not in fact cost 50 cents but you know what I mean.
Oh my god I cannot tell a simple story.
So he got the recipe for how to grill chicken, which is less a "recipe" and more a "procedure," and come back soon for more air quotes. We went to the grocery store to get corn, chicken and other cooky-outy things. On the way out, we saw a woman dressed in a sari, leaving the party supply store. She had a giant Mylar balloon shaped like a guitar. "I wonder where she's going with that guitar balloon?" I asked, and really where did I THINK she was going? Jimi Hendrix's grave? My point is, Ned said, "Oh. I just figured it was a sitar."
A sitar. Oh my god. First of all, racist much? And second, you get a lot of demand for those sitar balloons. Maybe she was going to George Harrison's grave.
We got back to my house and realized we had no newspaper. Ned went to the corner store and got one. Then we realized we had no limes. I ran to the grocery story and got some. While I was there, Ned called. "Get another tomato (he was making salsa)."
When I returned, we realized we had no ice, and Ned went back to the corner store, and then we noticed the sun was setting and that's right about the time we committed hari-kari and gave up.
"Someone who reads my blog said she can't stand to read about us cooking, because she just wants to come through the computer and say, 'Oh let me do it,'" I told him. "Tell that person she is welcome to take over. I have no problem with that," said Ned, enjoying his chips-and-salsa dinner.
So tonight we're trying again. I will let you know how that goes. In the meantime, I must work on my statistics, and I hope it goes as smoothly as last night's meal.