It's Sunday night and I'm bloging now, because I know I have to spend between 8 fucking a.m. and 8:30 fucking a.m. Monday on the phone to my mortgage company, because their fucking website will not work and I can't pay my mortgage and it will be considered late on the six fucking teenth and I will have a late fucking fee.
So knowing I have to do that tomorrow, I'm blogging now with a special post titled, Don't Say Fuck a Lot.
Anyway, the point is, busy weekend. This does not mean I did not take time out to do some Nedding, because for some reason Ned and I Nedded six times this weekend, all told, and I do not know really what is wrong with us but I can't complain.
When I wasn't Nedding like a common tramp, I was partayying, and there's really nothing more appealing than someone aged almost 50 who says things like "partayying."
We had a stupid busy week at work, and we've been pounding the grindstone or whatever, but then Friday afternoon they were doing such obnoxiously loud construction that it was impossible to even think. I took my work to my car and did it there, but here is Ryan at 5:00, ready to call it a day with his cool sunglassed ass.
Ryan, Ned and I headed over to one of the Alexes', who had a celebrity-themed party for her birthday and also because she'd bought a fabulous dress at a theater fundraiser thingie and needed to show it off.
Look at that perfect bitch, in her dress. Could she look any better? And how much do you love her paparazzi thing on her wall? Dying. I refer to her boyfriend as Shoulders, and I think he hates it but I think he hates how I use every opportunity to feel him up even more. "Oh, hello Shoulders! [hug hug hug]." "Oh, Shoulders, you came back from the bathroom! [hug hug hug]." You'd never know I hate to hug.
I can't even imagine how awful it is to have some shameless old huzzy feeling you up every second but that is the hand he's been dealt.
Oh, and let me tell you a story about that dress. So it was some kind of buy-vintage-clothes-raise-money event, and Alex was there, looking at dresses. She put this one over her arm to try it on and the woman working there said, "Oh, that's an 8 according to the tag, but those vintage dresses run really small."
Alex, who is less than a size 8 (bitch), said okay, she'd like to try it on anyway.
"Okay, but they really run small. I don't know..." I mean, the saleswoman would NOT let it DROP and she CLEARLY thought old heifer Alex, here, would never get her fat ass in that dress.
LOOK at her. Her waist is smaller than my conscience. Size 8. Pfft.
The point is, Alex tried on the dress and it was everything she could do to not whip open the dressing-room curtain and say, "BOOM!" Instead, she just humbly purchased it and made us all depressed at her party.
And yes, someone else took these pictures. Alex's roommate Megan is into the photography and she had a huge fancy camera and shut up about how her photos are so much better than mine.
I know every one of you Mrs. Robinson pervs just died over Ryan in a suit. Oh, and see that butter? Alex has that butter blended in coffee every day for breakfast. That's it. She claims it fills her up. You know what else is filling? Bacon.
It was fun, and we didn't go to bed till after 2:00, and we felt all rock star youthy, is what we did, and then the next night was our gay bar extravaganza.
Sadly, I wore the sparkly cardigan both nights. Kind of a Mr. Roger's Gayborhood look going.
Lots of Nedding. Because look how hot.
Really, though, my slutty makeup and frilly dancey shirt and I took just everyone who would go and we headed to the gay bar to see drag queens--one of whom I became obscenely enamored with because she was hilarious--and also to dance. Drag queens and dancing. I really require little more.
Here's this copy editor following in his footsteps. And see? Same sweater. What do you want from me? But look at my fancy cocktail ring and purse! How bad do you wish you weren't a gay man right now and could swoop me right up?
A lot of straight men came with us, but only because they were spouses of women who wanted to go. All in all, I think I dragged (get it? BAH) 10 people to the bar with me, including Ned.
I don't know what everyone else did all night. I know I danced like an idiot. I danced to Lady Gaga. I danced to Rhianna. I danced to some video that was just all men's butts jiggling in tight under trousers. I didn't care.
I danced till my feet fell off. I danced till my old knees were aching. I danced till I said, MOTHER OF GOD I NEED FOOD. DONGER NEED FOOD.
That night, Ned and I got to bed at 3:15, and we've made a plan to only have one ridiculous night per weekend from now on, as we are old. And tired.
Actually, I feel not tired at all. I feel sort of happy. And I'm missing my sparkly cardigan.
So that's my story of my weekend. Hope yours was equally gay.
P.S. Today marks my 8th year of blogging. Holy shit, that's a lot of droning on about one's self.