I know it's Saturday and therefore eight people in total wonder why I haven't written yet, and for those eight people I will tell you that I've been working all day. I have freelance up my butt, which may lead you to wonder how I make my extra dollars.
Anyway, I sat outside all day with the dogs while I worked, and then I pulled 94958383920303 pounds of weeds from my yard, and I have a guy who comes and cuts the grass and weeds everything for $25, which I realize is a steal but he gives me a discount because I let him put freelance up my butt.
See what I did there? I said something ludicrous to see if you were paying attention. The point is, he hasn't shown up and my lawn looks insane and so does my neighbor Peg's, as we have the same currently negligent lawn boy.
Who cuts the grass on Walton's Mountain? Lawn Boy.
Good night. Drive carefully. You've been a great audience.
I was listening to my iPhone outside while I weeded and WHO WANTS CORDLESS HEADPHONES OH MY GOD ANNOYING when my nice Johnny Cash song was interrupted by a train whistle.
When Ned calls me, it makes a train whistle noise, because he lives point zero zero eight millimeters from the train tracks and the whole time you're there you hear the train a-comin'. Comin' round the bend. Anyway, so trains remind me of Ned and his ring tone is a train whistle.
He had been golfing all day, Ned had, and was in my neighborhood and decided to stop by.
Guess who was cranky about his golf?
"It's not even a good course," said Ned, who did I mention was cranky? "But it's cheap and nearby, so..."
"Wow, you could say the same about me," I said, because I am hilarious.
"That's true," said Ned. "Maybe from now on I'll just call that golf course 'June.'" Then we talked about my overgrown lawn and Ned said he'd drink one beer and cut my lawn for me and then when he was done he said, "I'm gonna go. I'm cranky and I have to nap."
And see what I did? I abstained from pointing out he'd said he'd cut my lawn, which really I've CALLED Lawn Boy, and he will be here Monday, and Ned was tired and I didn't WANT him to cut my grass, but I'd like you all to note how low-maintenance I was that I didn't bring it up but instead told all eight of you.
Last night we went to drag queen bingo with my friends Marty Martin and Kayeee.
We usually have a smashing time at drag queen bingo, but last night was super chaotic, and the sound system was ludicrous, and we couldn't see the acts. One drag queen was dancing to this frenetic song, and the best part was how much Marty M hated it.
"This is the worst song I've ever heard in my life," he said. "It's like someone had an epileptic seizure and set it to music." Then he convulsed and made noises to the beat of the song.
"I want to stick my wallet under the tongue of this song," he said. M. Martin was on a total complainy hate-this-song roll. "I wish I had that app where I could hold the phone up and find out what this is. Cause going on my iPod? You bet."
What I'm throwing down is Marty Martin was not a fan of that song. I wish I could recall one iota of it, as I would so send him the YouTube of it. It kind of went like this: eh eh eh eh eh eh [convulse] eh eh eh.
You can't drink downstairs where actual drag queen bingo is for some reason, and what we finally ended up doing was just going upstairs and drinking all of the alcohol in the entire world.
I did not have beer. Mostly I crouched by the stairs and tried to see drag queens. I hope you're sitting down, but one act was set to I Will Survive. I know! You never see drag queens choose that song.
There was one drag queen who had giant hair, and who had kind of stuffed her rather rotund self into a minidress (note my surreptitious photo of her). "That is how I picture myself. Is that what I look like?" I asked Marty Martin.
"She's much taller," he said, and I think tonight he's volunteering at the esteem-building workshop for womyn.
So that sums up my weekend thus far. Tonight Ned--who I hope revives his cheerful personality after his nap. I hope he slips out of his onesie refreshed and ready to face the world again--and I are going to the lesbian taco place, which by the way was on the walk to drag queen bingo last night and I noticed their slogan was "The Art of the Taco" and I giggled like a 7th-grader about that all the way down the block. Who needs to get over it, the lesbian taco place? Eventually I will be spotted there by a cranky butch type and get my ass kicked.
And my freelance will go flying everywhere.