Just breezin' in to your depressing cinder-block apartment to tell y'all about my evening last night.
Dick Whitman and I went to First Friday in Winston-Salem, which continues to be more fun than the First Friday in Greensboro, and I know this makes me a terrible local citizen but it's true. Maybe I like it because it's a whole 'nother city and I enjoy foreign lands. Maybe it's the 939494 rockabilly people. I wish I could be a rockabilly person. Do you think an almost-46-year-old rockabilly person would be pathetic?
We went to this crowded bar where they serve old-fashioned mixed drinks like mai-tais and mint juleps and boxcar willies and I really have no idea if there is a drink called a boxcar willie. And if there is it should probably be capped. This woman here was extremely animated and she bugged. I realize that I am extremely animated and should stop judging.
We ran into a guy I work with, too, which was kind of exciting. I am known internationally! He and I had our first day of work together and when we see each other in the break room we always sort of conspiratorially ask how the other is doing. But we both like it there, so that's a relief. I would say we are on the same page, but people who say "we are on the same page" need to be taken out back and shot.
On First Friday, all the stores and galleries stay open, and they close off part of the road, and this time there were old cars splayed out everywhere to look at. We sat on some steps and looked at one particularly gaudily painted automobile, and Dick Whitman said art people refer to gaudy stuff as "rococo" and then I had to tell him that I like rococo.
Probably rococo should be capped. Probably I should not tell fancy master's in art people that I like rococo.
Oh! And sometime in the night Dick Whitman informed me that HIS MOM is reading my blog. HIS MOM!
Hi, Dick Whitman's mom. I am not nearly as awful as this blog implies. Okay, yes I am, but should I ever meet you I was going to give you the impression I wasn't.
Anyway, I came home all tired and smiling and emailed with Miss Doxie about how ding-dang happy I am. And about drawstring pants. Somehow we got on the subject of drawstring pants. Which is another happy topic, as they are so COMFY.
I leave you with pictures of my cats, because what is a day on this blog without pictures of my cats (hi, Hulk. I know you feel that way especially)?
You have never met two kittens more in love than these two. Also, Roger grows in front of me, like a sunflower.
Seven minutes ago, Henry had been glowering at me in the windowsill and Winston had been sitting cutely in a chair, but because I am writing this and throwing annoying Edsel's rubber hammer 9394939 times, the door is open and both cats have huffed outside. Oh, they hate it here.
Nevertheless, I leave you with one final image. Well, two. Faithful Reader Steve's Wife Beth, who remembers everything about every nuance of this blog, found this picture of Henry and me way back when:
Anyway, look at Henry. LOOK AT HENRY!!!
Annnnnnnd scene! Is this why (horrid) people say they "love kittens but then they turn into cats"? Also, apparently Prince Valiant's family disowned me and some bag lady down to the Food Lion has claimed me. The hair gets done next week, folks. And this is good. Perhaps this is why Henry hates me. I have less angry chair and more angry hair.
Those Zappos boxes contain the 85 tons of paperwork needed to purchase this house, which I already own. That is why those boxes are always out. I know how y'all look at everything.
I know I read someone's comment this week and said, "Oh, THAT is comment of the week" but do you think I can remember whose now? So there go my next two hours while I peruse the comments. I will let you know tomorrow. I have a date with Chris and Lilly tonight, which sounds way kinkier than it is.
Hi, Dick Whitman's mom. Oh, Lord.