Why does Edsel have to go outside and bark bark bark? The neighbors must hate me. Can't he just enjoy outdoors? Sniff a rock and survey his domain in silence, the way Tallulah did? But no. Instead, he tears over to one of the four backyards we face (one is sort of in the corner. And it technically shows us TWO yards) and barks endlessly at anyone who has the nerve to be in his or her own dwelling. Particularly if any of those people happen to be dogs.
Is this a Carolina Dog thing? I need to get on my Edsel Support Group page on Facebook. We're all forever checking in on one another. "Does your Carolina Dog make prank phone calls? Does your Carolina Dog always burn the chicken?"
Speaking of chicken, I've ruined the chicken and the egg so far this week. On Sunday I went to the grocery store and got things like yogurt and nuts and fruit and spinach until Ned finally said, "What's gotten INTO you?" and I explained to him how tired of feeling fat I was, a thing he can identify with because he can't work out with his bulging disk and he abhors his own self currently.
He's been out of town all week, Ned has, and each night I come home and make something sensible and do Tracy Chapman and so far I've gained six pounds.
Anyway, the first thing I did was never cook the chicken breasts I bought, and now they've gone bad. They're using the wrong form of "their" on Facebook and protesting soldiers' funerals cause they hate gay people.
Then last night I made the eggs. "How do you hard-boil eggs?" I asked Ned when he called me from the airport. He's not staying at an airport; rather, he was coming home. His plane was delayed, natch, and it made his mood sparkling. He got in late last night and has to get up for physical therapy at 8:00 today, so.
He gets too tired for PT at 8:00. He likes the theater and always comes late. He's extra into whatever he ate. That's why my boyfriend-for-90-days-same-as-cash is a tramp.
That song makes no sense. I mean, MY version totally does, but the real one. How do any of those traits make you a tramp? I mean, you could just apply any trait and be all, "Tramp."
She blogs for too long; for work she is late. She's dragged to movies she knows she will hate. If she and Ned fail, she wants a rebate.
That's why the Juney is a tramp.
I have no idea what we were talking about. Let's move on. And that's why the lady is a tramp. No matter what your comment is today, I want you to follow it up with telling me why that makes you a tramp. You know how I get. That's why the blogger is a tramp.
She talks about her crap with barons and earls.
Okay, I'm over it. No, I'm not. I'm like Edsel in the yard. I can't get over it.
I finished my 10-year-anniversary-of-blogging video last night. I came IN here to write something for Purple Clover (I know, right? They asked) and after, I took a gander at my video and then sat here for 29 hours changing it again. I did not use the photo above, where Ned looks pensive and deep but really he was checking out the menu at Steak and Shake. But I've always liked that Ned shot. That's why the lady is a tramp.
You probably saw this cute Iris photo on Facebook already, unless you are officially my mother, who is not on Facebook. While I was home, I noted if I typed Facebook into her search bar, it just leaped right into my FB page. Mom'd been bemoaning missing out on family things by not being on, and I said, "If you want, just get on Facebook through my page. I don't care."
So she took her laptop and typed it in and started perusing my wall, till she came across a political post she did not appreciate. Did not cotton to. Did not care for the cut of that Facebooker's jib. "How do I leave a response?" she asked. And that is when I took FB away from mom.
I took this photo of The Poet's dinosaur bag to show Ned, and then I never did. Please see: Ned is in Chicago Being President-y. But now you can all see it, and congratulations. Please see My Readers Aren't Presidents of Anything.
Speaking of readers, did I show you this? A bunch of readers got together and got this artist woman to make a needlepoint of my Luis! Oh, Lu. Look how she got every detail right. That's just where her ears fell. And her little Pitty jaw.
Here's what I do when there's sadness. I feel sad at the TIME, but then I rally and I'm all okay, I'm okay. I can do this. Let me just adopt a Stanley or something. And then I feel bad months later, for a really long time. I have a delayed reaction, and it's worse the second time. Like, my grandmother died, and I still feel the impact of it, whereas at the time I was all, oh okay. I can do this. I can handle this. And then it turns out, no you can't.
That's how I feel about Lu. I feel worse now than I did when she died. I hate fucking grief. I think we're better off not liking anything. And that's why your blogger is a tramp.
How did I go for a thousand words about nothing? If a blogger types a thousand words, then why can't I say anything resembling anything? These words will never show the you I've come to know.
And that's why this blog post is a tramp.