I guess blogging was not a priority this weekend. Fortunately for you, now I can tell you EVERY DETAIL of the weekend RIGHT NOW, so it's like you were THERE! I plan to do a lot of, "Wait. Let me back up" and also, "It was Saturday--no, wait, it musta been Sunday because..."
Anyway. Hi. How was your weekend? Did you watch the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon? Is that even on anymore? Remember when it was a thing, and it'd be on all day and night at everyone's house? Now? Nothing. Times marches on, dood.
On Friday night (EVERY DETAIL!!), I got up with my hot friend Dan, who sits around being hot. We ate, we talked, we laughed, we found our own selves incredibly witty, and in all it was the perfect kind of evening. Dan is one of those people with whom time flies, and you never have to worry about coming up with something to say.
I have never once in my life struggled for something to say. But you know what I am not? And maybe you should check with Ned on this, or someone who reads me who knows me in real life. But I like to think I'm not one of those ramble on till you're miserable kind of people. I like to think I don't just talk endlessly without taking a break. Did you ever see couples walking somewhere, and the woman (it's always the woman) pratters endlessly and the man would be hanging from a noose if he could just find a beam?
In fact, Ned is sometimes rather endlessly chatty. I swear. He has the gift of gab. And sometimes, like when I've read the same sentence 14 times, I have to say, "Are you chatty, then?"
Speaking of Ned, Friday was my whole "I'm independent, hanging with my friends" kind of rebellion night, and please won't you savor my air quotes, but he'd left me a lovely email late at night, Ned did, so I called him at 8:00 the next morning.
"Are you asleep, still?" I knew he would be. "Can I come over and we can go right back to sleep?" I asked him. So 15 minutes later I was at Ned's, and we went to the movies (some Phillip Seymour Hoffman boy movie), and we painted my porch steps, which looked like a third-world country.
At some point this weekend, I got a manicure.
Oh, and at the movie? Ned and I have a thing, where he gets the tickets and I go inside and buy popcorn and Cheerwine with extra ice, for Ned's chewing pleasure. So, apparently, at the ticket line, this couple got their tickets, Ned moved forward, but the woman who'd just been in line edged him aside.
"Oh, just so you know. We REALLY wanted to see the OTHER movie, but the times you were having it were just ridiculous. So we came to this movie. I just wanted to let you know." And she huffed off.
The poor 14-year-old ticket taker was all, "Okay." I mean, I'm certain she had a lot to do with scheduling the movie. Whose job IS that, anyway? The point is, they sat right behind us, these charmers.
"HONEY, IS THIS SEAT OKAY? AGATHA! AGATHA! THIS SEAT OKAY?"
Everywhere we go, Ned and I are surrounded by assholes. I mean it. At every restaurant, there's the loud laugher, or the table that decides restaurants are a GREAT place to have.a.party! and shout down the table and generally ignore the fact that there are OTHER PEOPLE IN THE ROOM, and every movie, EVERY MOVIE, we get a texter or a talker or something.
"Why do we go out? We hate everyone," I asked Ned. Those people continued to talk as if they were in their living room for the rest of the film. "WHAT'D HE SAY?" "HE SAID..."
Oh my god.
Ned and I are also both packing, and getting a huge pile together for a yard sale we're having next weekend. I'd show you the pile but I'm worried some real-life friend will be all, "I got you that scarf with lobsters on it last year! Oh boo hooo hooo hooo!!!"
The point is, we found Ned's keychain that the Tall Boy got him. I have kept mine on my key ring since day one, but Ned's had been in a drawer.
That up there is m'new couch®, by the way. I mean, Ned's old couch is now mine. I love his couch. We've made out on that thing 8394848394 times. Apparently, no dogs are going to be allowed on it, which, okay, bub. Good luck, there. Ned has asked if he can bring some discipline to my dogs' lives when we move in, and I haven't the faintest what he's talking about. My dogs are machines. Trained? Hmpf. Only to a fault.
I meant to show you a picture of my friend Jo visiting me this weekend, but instead I found this one of Bitchy Resting Face Alex and me at a happy hour the other night. She gives new MEANING to happy hour.
In Seattle, I worked in a high rise, and I like how I just said "high rise" like I'm 109, and at the bottom of our building was a clothing store called C.P. Shades. Everything was cotton cotton cotton in there, and they had a lot of those '90s long billowy sundresses and so on. Anyway, my coworker Blanche always called it C.P. Wrinkles, because everything she bought there turned creasy before she even got to work.
Here's Jo visiting me, and old Jenny from Love Story in repose. Hey, did I tell you Tallulah's bump is gone? I mean, that COULD be good news, but what I've obsessively Googled re mast cell tumors is they come and go. Anyway, right now there's nothing to fine needle aspirate, so I canceled her appointment and am hoping it was a bug bite or something equally denial-y.
Ignore the pile of yard sale stuff, and don't have a FIT if you see something you gave me. In fact, when Jo left, she left with three things from that pile. I gave them to her, FREE! Am amazing friend.
Okay, I have to go to work. In not-white pants, which I just typed "not-shit pants," and I will also try to avoid shit pants, as well.