Last night after work, Ned and I met for dinner at the restaurant I really like that he isn't that crazy about. I have no idea how you could not be crazy about this place, but its big draw, really, is that it has outdoor seating. It's that place we went to one night when we were first dating that sat us in pitch blackness.

When I just went to find that post, I thought, "I wonder what the hell I would have called that post. I shoulda called it In the Dark." So I Googled "byebyepie" + "restaurant that sat us in darkness" and guess what I found. A post called In the Dark. Clearly my brain never changes. Not since birth.

"The reason I never really am crazy about that place is there's not one goddamn thing to eat there that's healthy," said Ned just now, like that's a feature that matters. One reader in particular gets all excited when Ned's getting out of the shower and getting ready while I type. Today he has on a white shirt and sort of charcoal-looking pants. I don't mean he has pants on made of little squares that make your hands dirty when you pick 'em up. After work, Ima set Ned in the sun and make s'mores right off his pants.

(I just heard him zip that gym bag. The bag of enemy. The bitch that takes him from me for hours each day, that gym.)

Here's another thing. Ned always says about things, "I don't DISLIKE it, I'm just not crazy about it." He says that about everything. He just said that about this restaurant just now. Why can't he just come out and admit he dislikes something? The other day he said, "I don't DISLIKE that guy, it's just he thinks he's better than us." I mean, how could you not dislike someone who thinks he's better than you? Unless of course it's true. Like, if Sarah Jessica Parker thought she was better than me, I'm down with that.

That's why I hate that People of Walmart site. It's like we're laughing because we think we're better than poor people. That site has never made me laugh, not once. Makes me sad, really. How awful are we? Oh, here we are, with our cute clothes and our privilege, laughing at people who aren't as cool as us.

Oh my god, SERIOUSLY, with the digressing.

SO WE WENT TO THAT RESTAURANT. Geez. And the reason I fought for it was because of the outdoor seating. I got there first.

"Oh, all the outdoor seats are taken," said the little chippie of a waitress who was not that little. I mean, if you're 23, BE THIN NOW. This is the only time it's easy. Don't be chubby. You'll never have a time you can look back and say, "God, I looked great."

When Ned got there, I was crankily sitting inside. "Why are you inside?" he asked, as if I'd just FORGOTTEN I wanted to be outside. I told him the sitch–that it was a 20-minute wait to eat outside. "You want to wait?" he asked. Of course I didn't want to wait.

"You wanna go to–"

"NO. I don't want to go anywhere else," I cranked. "I don't wanna drive around town and find four other restaurants that also can't seat us outside."

I swear to you this town has gotten busier. Have more people moved here? Is the economy better? I liked it when no one could afford restaurants. You know when you could probably always get a seat? The Depression, that's when. The Depression was probably great.

So we sat inside. A Nirvana song came on. "You know, this is really a David Bowie song," said Ned, who knows I hate David Bowie. Why does David Bowie have to be so dramatic, with his face glitter and his spiders from Mars? Who gives a shit where your spider came from? Any time you end something "from Mars," you aren't being very imaginative. Same with "from hell." "It's a job from hell." Oh, ho ho ho ho hoooo! Wow! How'd you think of THAT?

And his teeth. Hello, Big Book of British Smiles.

"Yes, I know," said, knowing full well Ned was gonna launch in his how-can-anyone-hate-David-Bowie diatribe.

"How can anyone hate David Bowie?" Ned asked, as the food came.

Every song that came on after that, Ned would say, "This is a David Bowie song." They were playing Old People Music for patrons like us: The B-52s, that song Funky Cold Medina, some REM. Every song. "This is actually by David Bowie."

Ned's love for himself grew with each bite. In the meantime, I had to methodically wipe each of my fries with my napkin, because they'd put way too much salt on them. By the end of the meal, I had 27 napkins at my chair, like I was a toddler. Ned ate every bite of his unhealthy sandwich and fries. "I don't DISLIKE fries…" he began.

On the way home, the radio played a David Bowie song.

Ned and I were out late last night; we went to see Lucinda Williams.

Please remind me to tell you about the Excitable Roy who sat in front of us. He looked like my friend Roy–at first I thought it WAS my friend Roy, with his ginger hair and long beard–and you could be certain he'd seen the opening band before. Let me assure you.

Every song they started, he'd pump his fist and do this, "YEAHHHHHH!" growl/screech thing, then say to his wife, "WELCOME TO ALABAMA!" or "THE SONG ABOUT HIS GRANDMA!" Then he'd pump his fist, and repeat the lyrics back to his wife, who never did anything but nod exhaustedly.

"That wife? Beleaguered." I announced to Ned. "I know!" said Ned, who'd clearly been thinking the same thing. The good thing about Ned is when we're out, we're both spending the whole time staring at people, and thinking judgy things. If you can't be your worst self with your person, who CAN you be your worst self with?

By the way, I guess you don't need to remind me to tell you about Excitable Roy, because I think I just did.

Ned was not a fan, at least he wasn't as big a fan as Excitable Roy, but I didn't mind that band so much, because I'm from Saginaw. I liked the song they had about the grandmother, and they were all sort of hot, in a bearded country way. The lead singer's shirt came open at some point, and Ned said, "Can you read the tattoo on his stomach?"

"Just some letters, but I was assuming it reads 'Gypsy.'"

"Maybe it says Tipsy," Ned suggested.

"Or Nipsey," I said. "He could be a huge Nipsey Russell fan," I said.

I mean, who isn't?

I like men who wear big, chunky jewelry. Not that Nipsey Russell does, but rather old Tipsy Gypsy Nipsey, up there. He had a big coral ring, and necklaces, and I like that look. (Now Ned is accusing me of liking other men because he would in a million years not wear chunky jewelry, and a good idea is letting your person see what you're blogging.)

Oh my GOD I just came on here to say I can't blog and look what's happened.

I was just going to show you this rainy picture I took of the tree outside my window, finally getting leaves ("finally." It's March) and from yesterday to today it went from hint of green to hi, here are my leaves. So. Also, my robe totally tried to photobomb.

I had my ultrasound yesterday but so far no call re it. I think they're going to say, Hey, you have an ovarian cyst. Nothing we can do about it. That'll be $900, please.

Okay, really going.

Oh, look, here I still am. I forgot I took this picture of my pretty rainy yard yesterday morning as I left for work. It doesn't nearly do justice to all the purple and yellow back there, but it sure celebrates that tag hanging off the chair.

Your fave gypsy blogger,

Jooooon