I was extra busy sleeping this morning, so I didn't blog. I only got in eight-and-a-half hours, and I know you're wondering, "God, how does she do it all?" Cause I mean, after that brief rest, after that if-you-wanna-call-that-SLEEP sleep, I had to flurp some kibble into FOUR BOWLS before my six-minute commute to fake work.
I've been making up a lot of words lately. I've been onomatopoeeing all over myself.
At any rate, Ned continued to, you know, recover from his major oral surgery and not get dry sockets, although he DID make the mistake of asking me what they DO when you get dry sockets, and I told him, and then he was all STOP STOP STOP DON'T WANNA HEAR ANY MORE STOP.
The good news is, he was well enough to go with me Saturday to go partayy with Dick Whitman and one of DW's friends, who did not want her picture on my blog and who can figure that kind of thing out? What do you mean, privacy and dignity? Do not get.
Anyway, here's Dick Whitman holding some kind of chalice of girly drink, and you may think this is blurry but I'll have you know it was PITCH BLACK in that bar, so the fact that I got ANY picture at ALL is saying something.
Ned had scotch on the rocks, and I really think he may be the most manly person I have ever dated. Also, the part where there's a hole in the table, near his manly drink? Led me to tell him yet another plot of a Sex and the City episode: the one where Aiden makes the love seat, and it has a flaw, and Carrie uses the example of the flaw in the wood to get him to not break up with her despite the part where she'd been humping Mr. Big.
Spoiler alert. Thirteen-year-old spoiler alert.
But Aiden would have none of it. Till he came back, that is.
Spoiler al–oh screw it.
But in my defense, I believe I sat through three, or maybe four, basketball games this weekend.
Don't you love that picture? How bored with me is Ned? I have always kind of been like a prize in the Cracker Jack. Novel, kind of cheap, and you're over it before too long. Marvin was the only person who kept for 16 years his 100% plastic magnifying glass that magnifies .008 of an inch of something. His temporary tattoo that doesn't all transfer onto your skin.
His bird whistle that doesn't quite blow. So to speak.
Despite this depressing image of us, things are going very well with Ned, who by the way I like. Yesterday we schlepped BACK TO WINSTON-SALEM, for the THIRD TIME THIS WEEK, to go to my friend Charlie's fundraiser.
And oh, with the rain. To say it was raining would be to say I have a bit of hair. To say there was a downpour would be like saying sometimes Edsel is enthusiastic. To say we had some precipitation would be like saying Hulk is fond of sports.
You get my drift. You see my point.
God. Iris makes everything about her.
So it was raining, if you're picking up what I'm throwing down, and Ned was driving, which means we had no GPS, and we kept SLIDING all over the dang road, and sometimes we couldn't see because the whole windshield was WET WET WET HELLO RAIN WET, and then we got there and couldn't find the place.
I mean we just couldn't.
The exit I wrote down did not exist, and we drove near where we thought it might be, and the rain was raining and the slidey was sliding and after awhile we gave up and went to a restaurant for some soup.
And I do not know what to tell you, but for some reason we stayed there for hours, although the part where there was a TV on with ding-dang sports may have had something to do with it, and waiting for the rain to cease was another part, but we ordered food TWICE, we were there so long, talking and sporting-event-ing and people watching and so on. We saw a shift change of the staff. I mean, we were a part of that restaurant. And it became a part of us.
I emailed Charlie AND his girlfriend today, to see if he has PayPal, and if not, Ima send your donations to his house directly. I am sad I couldn't find it. Part of the day's events included contra dancing, and I wore a swingy skirt for just that reason, and I even YouTubed a how-to-contra-dance video and made Edsel practice with me. He is terrible at dosey do-ing.
Oh! And speaking of sporting events, at fake work we're doing that bracket thing? That apparently people do when it's basketball-y out? And Ned filled mine out for me, and I got to pick who wins the whole thing so naturally I picked Michigan State, because I went to school there, though Ned had to ask me, "Do you want to pick Michigan State?" because of course I had no idea they were participating in this thing and my point is today I got an email and I am in the lead, over everyone here at work.
I think I stand to win $800,000 or something. Am so gonna get rich and get all Real Housewife of Greensboro on your asses.
Which, ooooooo! Season finale tonight! And reunion show! BEST NIGHT EVER! I cannot wait. Maybe I'll call Ned after and run it down for him. Do you think I'll get the crossy-arms-stony-look again?
I have to eat something for lunch and get back on the road to commute to the office again. I mean, she commutes, she blogs at lunch, she operates on 8.5 hours of sleep–she's like the Enjoli commercial. What a wonder woman.
XO, June. The eight-hour blogger.