Ned and I have been dating for two years, eight months and four days, but who's counting. At some point, we've developed a little routine. This is mostly because Ned is a very routine-y person, whereas we all consider ourselves lucky if I remember to wake up and go to work each day. The point is, we see each other on Tuesdays and Thursdays during the week, and then all weekend--Friday night through Sunday night. I guess it'd have been easier to say we generally don't see each other Mondays and Wednesdays.
"Next Wednesday you're going to have to see me, because that's the day we'll be moving in together," I pointed out to him.
I guess we'll have to change our routine. I've lived alone again, naturally, for three and a half years exactly, and I've liked living alone quite a bit. But I like Ned better.
In the meantime, back at this blog, on Sunday I was discussing many important things with Ned, including how when we were adolescents, we each got ahold of a copy of The Joy of Sex. "Oh my god, that was great," said Ned, who has been a perv since day one, thank god.
"Oh, I looked at the whole thing thoroughly," I told him, "don't get me wrong. But even back then I was all, These people could stand a little grooming." Did you ever peruse that book? There were line drawings, and they were very early-70s-looking. No one in that book was anyone you'd want to have the joy of sex with.
Seriously, does this guy look like he's bathed since Woodstock? And the women were sportin' the Jiffy Pop; they were not screaming out to the waxer back then.
God, I miss the '70s, when the answer to everything was a shag hairdo.
I have no idea how I got off on this tangent. So to speak. Oh! I remember. So, we segued from The Joy of Sex line drawings to penis size, and don't even ask me how Ned and I converse. You have two people who talk a lot, and it gets ugly sometimes.
The point is, THAT is when I got on my phone and emailed this blog asking if penis size really matters, and several hours later, I looked at my phone, and no comments. "Hunh," I said, and went to my blog, and no post. Sometimes when I email a post, it doesn't show up, which is extra-efficient.
Then yesterday, more than 24 hours later, the damn post appears on my blog. I was at work, and started getting, "Yes, it DOES matter!" comments, which made no sense, so I looked at my blog and there it was. "Oh, dammit," I said, and took it down, because I'd written that 47-foot-long post about my weekend and didn't want a whole NEW post to detract from ALL THE FREAKING WORK I'd done on the large one. So to speak.
And here's what I like: When this blog takes on a life of its own. Last night I saw on Pie on the Face (a Facebook group for this blog, if you did not know), and you guys were all, "June took the penis post down, but it'll be back up tomorrow." So to speak.
I NEVER SAID I was going to put that post back up. And then there were more comments on my blog. "Where's the penis post? Oh, well, I guess I'll read it tomorrow."
Oy. I'm gettin' a shag. You know what'd look great on curly hair? Okay, she's the only exception to the rule, because she's Carly Simon. I would look mentally disabled if I tried this look.
It seems like I had other things to tell you, naturally, but now I've of course forgotten them. I have to remember to tell the post office to forward my mail to my new place, and I have to tell the garbage people that next week will be extra garbage-y. I hate being busy with things.
Talk at you tomorrow, when I'm sure I'll remember everything I was gonna talk about and this will be very linear and organized.
XO,
