I just woke up, having slept nine hours. I had to recover from that one-day workweek. I put in seven and a half hours this week. I know. It's insane. I gotta knock it off, get some balance in my life.
The good news is, you may remember I said I took on an extra task at work, a big project, if you will, and I found out it was very well received. I told my boss's boss's boss, just when you thought I couldn't get more pleased with myself, boom.
Oh! And the project was something I wrote, not copyedited, and please see previous post about what the psychic said. oooooWEEEEEoooooo!
Last night I got up with Dick Whitman, and remember when that was an all-the-time occurence? Now we have mates and ignore the shit out each other. We're the kind of friends who dump each other as soon as a boyfriend comes along. Or girlfriend, seeing as DW does not have a boyfriend, not that you'd guess that based on his drink orders.
"Whitman, aren't you, like, an artist?"
"I am. I guess you'd never know it from my color knowledge." Pink toes. Good gravy. Maybe he's just used to assigning the color pink to anything having to do with me.
At any rate, we had a good time. We went to Reynola, which is this old mansion owned by the Reynolds tobacco people, because yay, cigarettes. Part of the mansion and grounds are all these tiny white outbuildings, where the workers lived so they could slave away picking tobacco or whatever you do with tobacco. They've turned each little building into shops and restaurants, and we ate at one of them.
Yay, tobacco! Yay, underpaid field hands!
Tonight Ned comes home, and I have announced I am making dinner. "What would you like?" I asked him. "Well, I imagine my choices run the gamut from salmon to lasagna," he said tiredly. "No! I'm going to make something new!" I said, all this water making me insane.
I gave him the choice of honey jalapeno salmon or grilled chicken with jalapeno caramelized onions. Ned's big into jalapenos. Then his side choices are a broccoli cherry tomato salad, a berry salad with gorgonzola, spinach mashed potatoes or balsamic glazed new potatoes.
Last night while I was headed to Dick Manly Drink Whitman's, Ned called from the beach. "I want all those things. Can we have them all?" So I guess I get to choose without his ass, and why did I think he'd make a snappy decision anyway? All of YOU could have told me, "Ned will never decide on these, June." And you would be right.
I think I'll go for the chicken, the berry salad and the goddamned mashed potatoes because I freaking love mashed potatoes.
Before I go begin cooking, because yes, it WILL take me all day to handle this, my aunt sent me a photo from her yearbook.
Okay, I know it's not that sharp, and where do you think I pick up my fine skillz? But on the right, near the top? The old people watching the game? THOSE ARE MY GRANDPARENTS! That's the grandmother I'm turning into, other than the part where she attends basketball games. And there's my grandfather looking intent right next to her. He played basketball in college for the brief time he was in college, before he had to go be all up in World War II. Cool, right?
And yes. I know. My grandfather DOES look like Ned. I've seen that before, but I really see it here. They are younger than I am now, in this photo. Oy.
Oh, wow! Do you see the black guy in front of them, the guy kind of looking at the camera? Longtime family friend. Holy cats! He's the dentist for several members of my family. How cool. I'll bet my grandparents saw him in the crowd and sat next to him to chat. I wonder where I was. Probably rehab.
Okay, I'm out. Gotta go cook. You are so sick of hearing me say that.