When I got up today, I was convinced I wouldn't be able to get on my blog again. How disconCERTing, the whole of Typepad being broken for that long. Fang.
"Fang." Goddammit. I've lost my ability to type since this was a real blog that worked.
So I guess what I'll do is run down my Easter weekend, or "my weekend," if you are a Jew. My damn camera on my iPhone was broken--kept saying I was out of storage, which made me mad because I have bins all over the place. Finally, I deleted some important apps such as my what-disease-is-it app and my a-hot-black-man-is-nearby-alert app and voila! Cleared space and ability to take photos. This, sadly, only happened yesterday, so the only pictures I have are ones Ned took with his iPod when we were at the science center, and he did NOT send me any of the monkey sex ones, which I will get to.
Don't you hate people who think it's "waa-laa" instead of voila? Whenever I see someone write this, I unfriend them. Huffily.
The point is, no photos, and so this whole post will be boring as shit.
Oh! I could draw photos like they do in Hyperbole and a Half! Yeah! That'll be effective! I am an excellent draw-er.
So, on Thursday we got out of work early, so that we could start celebrating Easter forthwith. Or, "the weekend" forthwith. June. Sensitive to other religions since 2014.
At lunchtime, I'd been SICK AND TIRED of dieting, so I am sorry to tell you I went out and got nachos, and God, don't nachos sound delicious even though it's 7:00 in the morning. But that day, it was at least noon (it's noon somewhere!) (don't you love people who say that?), and I got me the nachos and ate the shit out of them, as Ned would say.
When they let us go at 3:00, my idea was I'd go home, nap for maybe 20 minutes, get up and do Tracy Anderson, then shower and get ready to see Ned. We were going to a baseball game. Woooo! Whose idea was that, do you think? So I got home and went to bed.
When I opened my eyes, the sun had moved in a disturbing fashion, and I was sweaty, and when I sat up?
Oh, Lord.
"I can't go," I told Ned, when I called him TWENTY MINUTES before the sporting event was to start. I'd slept till 6:30! And no, I didn't barf. But I did have to...release the hounds, as Marvin would say.
So that was fun. And Ned went without me, which, whatever with Ned. He clams he asked if there was anything he could do, and that I'd said no, but do I recall that? I was in nacho hell at the moment.
The good news is that I felt better by the morning, and Ned and I decided to fix my picket fence. Ever since we had an ice storm here, and Ned moved huge fallen branches and limbs from my back yard, one of the fence posts got knocked over, so basically ever since, there has been a big gap-tooth area in the fence with no, you know, fence-y part.
The good news is, the dogs would go back there, and stay in the back the whole time, and then when they saw me they'd just step through the open part of the fence to greet me. They knew they could escape through that missing post part and never did. What excellent dogs. Here is an artist's rendering, where my dogs look nothing like rabbits.
Okay, the opening wasn't that dramatic, and in real life, Talu looks a lot less like Barry Gibb. Do you all wonder why I didn't give everything up to pursue my art? Sometimes I do, too.
Anyway, Ned and I schlepped out to buy nails on Good Friday, which is an unfortunate coincidence. And do you have any idea how many effing nails there are in the universe?
"These say 'one inch.' Does that mean that's how long they are?" I asked.
Ned looked at me for a very long time. "Yes, June. That's...what it means when the box of nails has 'one inch' written on the side of the box. Yes."
It occured to me what a ridiculous question that was, and it started to make me titter a bit, and then I did the thing where I get hysterical, and I'm all bent over at Lowe's, giggling at myself, and barely able to stand up, and where Ned seems to be wishing one of those forklift things would pick him up and relocate him.
Oh my GOD, now it's getting late, because these fine artist's renderings are taking a long time and I hate me. So I will tell you about the rest of my weekend tomorrow. But the rest of Friday we spent going to a documentary on Elaine Stritch, and guess who I love.
Oh, she's the bomb. And her legs are still good. You have to hand it to her.
By the way, I didn't draw that movie. That was a real film. I know it's hard to tell my drawings from real life.
Okay, talk at you tomorrow. Monkey sex. Maybe that's how I'll sign off from now on. "Monkey sex! June."
Monkey sex,
June.
