The best thing about my birthday is that Ned got "Ned!"ed while he was buying my birthday cards. Yes, cards, plural, because he is the best boy ever invented. The woman at the store said, "I'm not gonna pretend that I don't know you're Ned." She said she's been reading me since Bye Bye, Buy, which is a long damn-ass time.
Ned was okay with being spotted, although this is going to make cheating on me harder to do, if he's gonna go ahead and get RECOGNIZED all over yonder, but I have faith that with perseverance, he can do that, too. By the way, that cupcake not only had a chocolate-covered strawberry on it, but it had a strawberry cream filling that would make you hit Ouiser.
I got up on July 16 and 94 hours later, I'd opened all my presents.
You were all obsessed by the Orvis box, so that mystery can now be resolved. Sheets. My mother got me sheets. I always need sheets because dogs sleep in my bed and I have to change the sheets, like, three times a week.
I got lovely stationery from mom, and some beautiful earrings from Aunt Mary, who also got me a Coach purse and some cups from London's flower show, which she attended because bitch gets to do everything.
My friend Dottie sent me cake pops and chocolate-covered strawberries. I took some in to work, so I wouldn't sit here like a giant glutton and eat every single thing myself, and someone on the Spanish team said, "This is like sin!" It really is.
After work, I had the choice of going to a fancy dinner or seeing Fargo at the old movie theater that we like, and I picked old movie theater. Because you know how I am. Before we went, Ned gave me the cupcake at the top of this post, and these:
I've been trying to write this post for over 30 minutes, and fucking fucking fucking Typepad is taking MORE THAN FIVE MINUTES EACH to upload my damn pictures and you can imagine my sparkling mood at this point.
I slapped all the pictures up at once, and I HATE TYPEPAD, and now you can comment and all your comments can go to spam because I HATE TYPEPAD and I pay $150 a year to have my photos take years to upload and to spam your comments and did I mention TYPEPAD CAN GO SHIT IN A HAT.
Anyway, Ned got me a book about Gary Dell'Abate (if you don't listen to Howard Stern, your life is lacking as a result. Trust me.) and a pretty necklace which you can see did a lot for the outfit I was wearing, and some beautiful earrings which I can't upload and I HATE TYPEPAD and my official birthday picture, wherein I am smiling and hating Typepad.
Now I am late for work and I hate everything, mostly Typepad. The end.
P.S. Typepad's spell check goes on the blink constantly, too. Like, it'll check one paragraph then go out and you have to click the spell check box again. GUESS WHAT I HATE. The end. Again.