Last week, Ned told me people at his workplace were sick and missing work, and on Friday night when we were out, he said, "I feel a little something in my throat, but with MY great diet and MYYYYYY workout schedule, I know I can beat a cold."
That's what Ned said. He did. And you know what one of the seven deadly sins is? Yes. Ned said that sentence with such avarice, that the next morning he woke up miserable. "Ohhhhhh," moaned Ned, and then he sniffed. And that pretty much encapsulates the rest of my weekend: old Ned and his wrath. I was just trying to think of another deadly sin.
Wait. I thought pride was one of the seven deadly sins. That's what this whole joke was based on, that Ned was all prideful with his baby lions about how well he takes care of himself and that's why he was struck down with a cold. Well, shit. Really?
By the way, I really like what Sloth is wearing.
Anyway, poor burning-hot Ned and his sniffy self was the focus of my weekend, and I forced him to go back to bed and not try to do stuff when he couldn't even keep his eyes open on the couch for 10 minutes. "You know you're going to catch this," said Ned as he clutched his Kleenex like he was on a reunion episode of The Real Housewives. "I know," I said, because I catch everything cold-related. "But this will be great for your Weight Watchers' points, because you won't want to eat anything," he said.
So old Gluttony, here, looked forward to that, because finally on Sunday evening I had to depart the company of Shelly Hack, over there, and head to my friend Marty Martin's house, where he'd been planning to host Ned, me and his most excellent girlfriend, Kayeeee, for an Oscars party for quite some time.
Two years ago, Marty had us over for the same reason, and Ned and I had only been dating about a month. I'm pretty sure it was the first time I ever took him to meet any of my friends. Ten seconds after we got there, Ned proceeded to break M. Martin's corkscrew, which as you can imagine was mortifying for him. Marty kept insisting the corkscrew broke all the time, and not to worry, but Ned felt awful.
This year, Marty said he was going to arrange his corkscrew so that it fell into 20 pieces the minute Ned touched it, and he was going to add a tag: To Marty, From Grandma. He planned to talk about how that corkscrew was the last thing his grandmother ever gave him. Because you know how your grandma was forever gifting you with wine openers.
But all that was for naught, because Ned couldn't go.
Soon Whoopi and I can share clothes, because I brought Weight Watchers-unfriendly mini quiches, which melted a little on the way over to become Salvador Dali quiches. I also brought brownies I made, and chips with lime, and guacamole and salsa. Marty had chicken drummettes and some sausage cheese dip, as well, which resulted in a day of me consuming 3949394920201 points. I am set for WW points till August.
But it's always a glamorous time at Marty's, and we all filled out a ballot, voting for all the categories. It was frightening how many of the movies Ned and I actually saw this year, as we go to the movies once a week, minimum. We saw the shorts, the weird foreign ones, only one documentary because they just didn't come here, those documentaries. We are happy to announce we did not see Frozen.
We even called Ned at home to get his sickbed votes. I stayed for the whole red carpet, where no one had anything interesting on other than Matthew McConaughay's wife.
Charleze Theron looked like two Nik-L-Nips. Remember, the wax bottles you bite off the top and drink the liquid? That's what her dress looked like.
Anyway. A little after 9:00 I went home and let the dogs out, then schlepped back over to Ned's to watch the rest with him while he coughed and moaned. And it turns out we both won the voting at Marty's house, with 17 correct guesses each. We rule.
Then this morning I woke up? And guess who's ill? Guess whose throat has daggers in it, with aches and tiredness? Could it be immune-to-nothing June, over here? So that's that story. If there were Oscars for Best Dramatic Reaction to a Cold, I'd so be thanking my agent right now.
P.S. I almost forgot. I took a picture with the Manicure Cam, which is officially the Stupidest Thing Ever Invented(R), to show off my very pricey Oscar party rings.