I did not get to blog last night, as we did not go to a movie till 7:00 yesterday. This was my fault, as I wanted to nap. Sue me.
Anyway, we saw Turner:
I was really disappointed when it wasn't about Tina Turner. I was so hoping it'd be every nuance of Ted Turner. Was wishing there'd be at least one stanza of Turner Around, Bright Eyes.
So, every now and then I'd fall apart during the movie. God, I'm hilarious.
The important news is, as a result of this weekend, I have an injury. I am the injured party. And there is a claw to blame. A blind, dick-cat, claw.
I know! I should not display this kind of gore, or even Al Gore, on my page. What you can't see is there is another such gash on my lip. I took off my necklace, see, while I was still lounging in bed, and I was dangling it for Iris to play with, and what the hell was I thinking, seeing as she is, oh, half blind. So she went for the necklace and instead grabbed me. God, that jerk has needle-y little pointy-ass claws. So she punctured my chin and my lip, which has affected my ventriloquist dummy act quite a bit.
My father is very large--as in tall, not fat--and he had a small Asian friend. For Halloween once they went as a ventriloquist and a dummy.
Anyway, so most of Saturday was spent trying to stem the bleeding and getting paramedics over and gathering my family for last goodbyes and so on. Also, it was Take Your Girlfriend to Work Day.
Ned had to work for awhile on Saturday, so I went with him and read my book. Did I tell you I finally got the Laura Ingalls autobiography? Ned got it for me in NOVEMBER, and it finally came. Good work, publishers, on estimating the demand. Anyway, I sat in Ned's office and read while he did boring work. Do you want to know what's full of decor and personal touches? Is Ned's riveting office. Wow. You sure know exactly who he is in that thing. All they've given me at work is about three feet of surface space they it SCREAM June, is what those three feet do. I have an Eiffel Tower lamp, pink doo-dads, my pink-and-purple ostrich feather alarm clock.
Ned's office has not even one ostrich-feather anything.
He DOES have a Bye Bye, Pie coffee mug, so. At least there's that. And he said no one at work has ever said, "What's Bye Bye, Pie?"
So, good marketing on my part. Do you remember when my friend Paula with the one boob had to have the chemo, and she took a tablet in there to read while she chemo'd, and she refused to hold her tablet up to everyone else and say, "When I'm getting the chemo, I love to read Bye, Bye Pie!"
She is a terrible friend.
I sent this perm-tastic photo to my high-school boyfriend, Cardinal, the other night, because I noted he was enjoying him some delicious White Zinfandel with me here in this photo when we're both 23, and I wondered did he grow a vagina at 22, or when? Because he was my boyfriend when he was 20, so it had to have happened sometime after that.
He insists the basket is making white wine look pink, but even if it's white, he'd better stock up on douche. The point is, (a) I still own that sweater and (2) he is coming here in a few weeks and he and Ned and I are going to some sort of beer festival, which, go beer. Too bad they aren't having a White Zinfandel fest. Cardinal'd be all up in that.
I must go, as it is time for work and while we've been talking, that fucking murder-ass Iris knocked the goddamn mouse to the floor. Someone needs to go outside and kill, tout suite.