Yesterday, I discovered this site lets you create surveys right here, without having to traipse over to Survey Monkey or whatever. So I tried to embed one in my blog, couldn’t figure it out, but DID figure out how to share my survey on Facebook, which means really I coulda just gone to Survey Monkey.
Ooooo, and before I go on with that riveting story, I wanted to tell you I got an email from someone who said she’s been a long-time reader who never comments, and that she’s delighted I swung on over to WordPress, to the Pressing Words, because she WORKS there and her job is to HELP people figure shit out here and did I have any questions?
So oh my god, yes, I have questions, as does the beleaguered person who’s setting up my blog, and Dear Person Who Wrote Me: We have more. I just never got around to writing you. I will. CONGRATULATIONS.
I should mention that people who read me here write me a lot, whether it’s email or IM or that Facebook messaging or whatever, and I apologize if I don’t answer everything. Often I see it while I’m doing other things and I think, “Oh, I’ll get back to that” and then I never have time. I’m sorry.
Anyway, I discovered I can do surveys, which is exciting, so yesterday I decided to put a survey on Facebook asking if I should get back together with Ned.
Oh my god, it took four seconds for eight hundred and nine million people to go, “NO! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! NOOOOOOO!” I could hear the crowd outside my window moaning, Nooooooo.
There’s even a comment section. “Are you KIDDING?” was the usual aghast answer.
Then, inexplicably, 25% of you said, “Sure, go ahead.”
“I put a survey on Facebook asking if we should get back together,” I told Ned.
“Oh, that’s funny. Did anyone say yes?”
Ned has this way of saying, “Really” that lets you know he’s appalled and trying to be polite. “I just spent $250 on a day of psychic readings and Botox!”
“Ima go look for puppies!”
It is the same reaction I am assuming he’ll have when I FINALLY GET MARRIED AGAIN and I will call him with the pseudo-polite, “I’m just telling you this so you don’t hear it elsewhere” that I absolutely cannot wait to do.
“Really,” he’ll say, as if the idea of a person in her 50s marrying is so ridiculous. Why tie yourself down? You have the rest of your life! Like, you’ve got 15 more minutes you don’t have to be chained to another soul!
The point is, folks, no with the Ned reuniting. Oh, sure, if he became A WHOLE NEW HUMAN. But otherwise, no.
But I knew it’d be a fun survey. Stay tuned for more, where I will actually consider your answers and not just fuck with you! Now no one’s gonna play with any of my surveys. I have a survery, ya’ll! “Really,” you’ll all say.
In other news, they had this brand-new dog bed at work that they gave me, and while I did want to keep it on the four inches of workspace they give me in that delightful open floor plan, I took it home for The Eds, who sniffed it for a million minutes and I wonder if they actually put a dog on it for whatever at work. Anyway, he needed a new bed. He had two, but one has a hole in the middle that Lottie dug, where she’d hide all her toys.
I miss Lottie. Steely Dan is just a cat version of Lottie, really.
Speaking of which, it was a pretty day yesterday, and really spring here is my favorite, so all the cats and the one dog (sad. ONE dog. That’s just wrong) and I went into the yard to enjoy the before-bugs weather that is so rare and delightful here.
This month is my house-aversary, and go ahead and hate me for saying that. I do. I hate me. But nine years ago we looked at this house right at this time of year, and I remember this plant being bloomed when we got here. Also, Alf my handyman is in the midst of fixing that whole archway thing. We’re waiting for the gate to weather like my skin and then we’re going to paint the whole shebang. And by “we” I mean Alf.
He’s also going to paint my front porch for me, the color of which we have been hotly debating on Pie on the Face on Facebook, a name that no longer makes any sense.
Little Miss Shavey Parts was content to stay near me while I Yoko’d her.
The ONE dog was, oddly, playing with Blu for a change.
And, oh my god, here is a SLIDESHOW (who knew??) of Steely Dan being a dick, attacking poor Lily, and taking her place. He has THE WHOLE yard not to mention THE WHOLE ROOF but it was more fun to usurp Lily.
Asshole. Why do I love him?
Anyway, I’d better go. I’m still debating what colors to paint my front porchal area.
You know how I am. I want it girly, so when you all say, “How about RED?” I die a million deaths. Red is not girly. My mother said glossy black will be classic, and maybe I can do that and girl it up with a girly doorbell, knocker and mailbox. Black steps and gray porch?
Or she said butter yellow, and I KNOW I’d settled on a light purple door but will that be too busy? My mother said it’s so small–that’s what SHE said–that it’d be too busy.
Everyone is sick of my porch. Even Ellen is sick of Portia, because sick-of-porchness is sweeping the nation.
Okay, goodbye. Waving at you from my…porch.