“Let me take you to dinner,” Ned said, Ned of the I Really Shouldn’t Hang Around Him Neds. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
“Village Tavern!” I said. I’ve never had bad food there. Ever. It is delicious.
“Well, it’s Wednesday night there.”
For some reason, my stupid city has made Wednesday incredibly annoying to go out in. It started with one restaurant having half-price-wine night, and their popularity encouraged other fucking restaurants to fucking follow suit, and now any time you find yourself out to dinner on a Wednesday (which if you’re Ned is every single Wednesday. Hello, single man with cash), you’re surrounded by cheap drunks.
“We can try it and if it’s too crowded we’ll go somewhere else,” I said.
Ned needs to know every detail of every slab of life. You may not know this about me, but I sort of prefer to let life wash over me, like a gentle tide. Ned would be over there asking the tide, “What’re you gonna do next? You going in, or…?”
“We can go to Filling Station.”
“Sigh. I knew you were gonna say that,” Ned said, and WHY TELL ME I CAN GO ANYWHERE I WANT THEN.
So we get to Village Tavern, Willage Tavern if you’re a When Harry Met Sally fan (at 3:18).
And you know it wasn’t that crowded? Whatever, Ned. Why don’t you work at McDonald’s. That’s only funny if you watch Grace and Frankie. Or Frankie and Grace. I forget the order.
Oh my god anyway.
We were soon surrounded by other eaters, and fortunately there’s a separate bar area, so all the I-need-my-wine-half-off yahoos were confined. My point is, we were near two different tables of women eating together.
“It’s almost like women are allotted a certain number of words they must get out per day, and around dinnertime, if there are a lot of words left, they give it their all to get them out before bed,” I said to Ned, who does not mind women as much as I do. On the contrary. IfYouKnowWhatI’mSayin’.
You know, maybe this not-blog is perfect for me. I can talk to women here, but in a controlled setting. And I get my allotted number of words out silently.
After dinner, Ned came with me to walk Edsel, who was so delighted to have his former daddy with him he couldn’t stand it.
Do ebrywon see daddeee? He my daddee, fmr.
I put this picture on Facebook awhile back, but I haven’t put it here, I don’t think. Edsel looking over his domain. This is the park on our walk, and I’ve been sorely tempted to just release the hound and let him run free through this park. I never do, though, because (a) other dogs and (2) busy road nearby. But maybe one day when I stop liking him.
I also took a late lunch yesterday to meet up with a nurse about my upcoming colonoscopy, which Ned is taking me to. You may recall we promised each other, back when we were actually dating, that we’d take care of each other during our respective colonoscopies, or coloscopies, as Ned keeps saying it like he’s 109.
I took him last year even though we were broken up, and now he must take me. Actually, I had my mother all lined up to take me, but she messed up the dates and in fact is leaving the day of my appointment. Clever. “Oh, gee, was that today?” [admires self in compact] “Call me a cab, will you, then?”
One of the reasons the restaurant wasn’t that crowded last night was because we got to eat at a June Hour (like, 5:30) as opposed to a Ned hour (like, 8:00). Ned worked from home yesterday afternoon, and I don’t know how a president can work from home. Although I guess all presidents of America do.
Anyway he worked from home because he was getting the house inspected, the house we used to live in, as he is purchasing it. Yes, he made a decision. Yes, I know. Mark your calendars.
After Ned left, I tried to go to the Wednesday movie near me–every Wednesday this month they’re showing Phillip Seymour Hoffman films–but it’d already started and I’m very Alvie Singer two minutes about that. So I hung out with my favorite attitudinal animal, and we watched the last episode of this season’s Orange is the New Black, or as my mother called it once, Orange is Black.
Now that’s all I call it. Do you have things like that? Where someone mispronounces something and then that’s how you say it forever? My cousin Maria used to say “big-bone-ded” and now you cannot get me to say it right. I mean, she’s almost 40. She doesn’t say that now. I hope. Then again, I’m almost 52 and I say it. So.
I accidentally took this photo of my girl parts on an Edsel walk recently, and I thought you might want it as a poster in your room.
Did I already put this in here, as well? I can’t recall all the shenanigans that include ludicrous Steely Dan that I’ve shown you. The other night I got home from work, and I opened the car door then turned to the passenger seat to get my bag, and
that damn cat jumped in and onto my lap. It scared the crap right out of me. I thought it was a rabid squirrel or something.
Anyway, other than getting to eat for free (although I’m dieting so I got a free salad. WOOOOOO), that’s all I have to tell you. The colonoscopy woman wanted to know if I had a will, and I don’t, so if I die during my coloscopy, please give everything to Barry Gibb.
Oooo! Oh! And I signed up to be an Amazon woman or something. So, once they say okay, I will put Amazon things on my not-blog, and if you click through and buy anything, I get, like, a cut. I think it’s fairly painless for everyone. You go on Amazon through me and I’m RICH. I think that’s how it works.
Update: Okay, if I’m not mistaken, I am officially an Amazon person now, and if I, say, add this link to Pink Beach lipstick:
if you click on that, and buy anything at all on Amazon, I think I get like a million dollars.
I broke my kitchen clock recently. It was just a cheap yellow plastic clock from the drug store that I’ve had for a decade, but I was shoving huge bags of pet food (why, I wonder) into the closet in the other room behind said clock, and boom, it crashed to the floor and the hands wouldn’t work any more.
So I went on Amazon on a Friday, as soon as I got paid again, and ordered a new kitchen clock.
Here. You want it? Click on the image below BECAUSE AMAZON SELLER NOW.
Anyway. It got here Sunday. SUNDAY! So. I like Amazon, is my point, and now they’re gonna make me RICH. Faithful Reader Darla thought of the idea. Further reports as developments warrant.
I’d better get in the shower, as I once again said I’d help out another team today and do not wish to miss said deadline for said team. It always makes me nervous to help someone else, like this is my one chance to prove I am not a dunce.
Speaking of which, yesterday I uploaded a document for my boss to look at, and instead of the Excel spreadsheet I was supposed to upload, instead I sent him my May bank statement.
Corporate ladder. It’s high up here. Not a dunce. Proving it.
Talk to you later. We can go anywhere you want.