Does anyone have any idea what it means when your air conditioning isn't really working? It wasn't working that well LAST summer, and I'm in here sweltering and doing my Meat Loaf in concert impression. Let me guess. It's gonna be a $950,000 thing, isn't it?
Do you ever watch Suzy Orman? I have trouble listening to her for very long due to the dramatic.pronouncing.of.each.word. But people call in and ask Suzy if they can afford something, which, really? Do they really not buy the thing when Suzy says, "Denied" with every letter of that word accounted for? Cause I'd be all, smell me, Suzy, but there you go. Anyway, the people have to lay out their financial picture for her first.
"I make $40,000 a year and I have $400,962 in savings, and $8 million in an emergency fund, plus my 401(k) has 900 thousand billion dollars in it. Can I afford this lipstick?"
"YOU! Can't afford it!" she always says, and that show just depresses me. I am headed for financial ruin, is what I am, unless I score a rich man and I note the part where so far Ned hasn't flown me around on any private jet. So.
I kind of feel like 47 and 11/12ths is too late to be a trophy wife. What say you? I mean, I'm not trophy wife so much as Rice-A-Roni wife, at this point. Remember on Let's Make a Deal when you picked the wrong curtain and no, you didn't get the embarrassing donkey (disclaimer: I'd so rather have a donkey than A NEW CAR!!!!), but you DID get the ohhhhhhhhh disappointing year's supply of Rice-A-Roni consolation prize?
I have no idea how I got off on this tangent. Oh, right. I'm hot. But Rice-A-Roni hot.
Yesterday, speaking of hot, Ned and I laid out by his pool, and we didn't bother to shower first because we'd be lying there getting all perspire-y. After awhile, Ned mentioned he was feeling peckish, and I don't know if I've ever pointed out to you that food is to Ned what breathing is to me. He loves him the food. We decided to get right up and walk over to this local bakery, and have bread from there and tomatoes and Parmesan cheese.
Which we did, on Ned's extra-organized coffee table. Note the bottle of Perrier I picked up at said bakery, and I'm also delighted to tell you they offered me a free baguette after I chatted up the cashier, which of course I took. On the way back to Ned's, I noted how French I was, with my baguette and my Perrier and my lack of shower. I also tried to have attitude, like the cat in Pepe LePew.
We went back to being American, though, at night, when we went to a baseball game.
Actually, it was kind of fun, because there were people to look at, and they have a black Lab named Miss Babe Ruth who runs onto the field and acts all cute and such.
Ned was excited about the food.
So we got ourselves hot dogs, because it was baseball and so forth, and we got sauerkraut on them, and really, I don't know why anyone tries to take me anywhere.
Dude. Seriously. That WHOLE HOT DOG fell onto my lap, and then I had mustard pants, and I'd like to point out how I'm never gonna be a trophy anything. "You should wash those when you get home," helped Ned.
"Wow. Have you considered writing a household hints book?" I was sort of crabby about my mustard pants.
After the baseball game, in which I managed to not pay attention to one single moment of the sports at hand, other than to duck if the ball looked like it might careen my way, there was a fireworks show. You can hear these fireworks from my house, and my dogs decidedly do not like them, so the whole time I just pictured Eds and Lu in a horrified embrace.
I guess that about sums up my Saturday. Today we're going to another pretentious movie, but not till evening because I have stuff to do. For example, swelter. Perhaps I'll think of my home as a kind of detox spa, and by autumn I'll be devoid of all the rotten stuff I consume that lounges in there and makes me look old: coffee, sugar, Cheese Nips. Cat fur. Impure thoughts about Barry Gibb. Episodes of Sex and the City. Lik-m-Aid powder. It'll be great!
Bonjour.
