It's Sunday night and it's raining, which I knew would happen anyway because my hair predicted it. I inevitably get a small but unmistakable curl right in the middle of my forehead--yes, when she was bad she was horrid--before it rains. It is a reliable barometer.
Anyway, this is the second-to-last weekend that I will ever have my sad goodbye-to-Ned Sunday night feeling. I hate that feeling; it's second only to that school-is-tomorrow-Wonderful-World-of-Disney-is-on feeling. Fortunately, in two weeks, we'll be in the same damn house. In preparation for this move, this weekend was busildy, so I will try to recap it for you without driving you berserk.
On Friday, Ned and I packed at our respective houses for quite a while, then I went over to his house and we watched that PBS series they're having right now on the Roosevelts. Are you watching it?
You know what I'm not? Rich as a Roosevelt. And who knew Teddy Roosevelt was hot in his youth?
Like, what made him go from being all intense-eyed Mr. Smokin' to a walrus? Because that didn't take long.
Anyway, the point is, here I am at Ned's the night we watched this show, looking slightly berserk and like someone who might try to seduce your teenage almost-walrus son.
On Saturday, Ned and I schlepped 47 million hundred cans of paint and other hazardous waste right on over to this drive-thru Haz-Mat place, and I was super disappointed you couldn't go through the drive-thru to drop off your stuff AND get McDonald's. I mean, it's all hazardous. Did I hear right, that McDonald's is serving breakfast anytime now? I'd like pancakes in the Renaissance.
(c) Steven Wright.
After that, you'll be stunned to hear Ned and I went to our respective homes and threw shit out and put crap in boxes and oh my GOD why'd I have to go and fall in love with Ned? I coulda lived without romance and stayed home.
The good news is, I found a home for my gutted, makes-no-noise piano. I put an ad on Craigslist for anonymous gay sex and also for my piano, and I really did use the line, "If you're a mime, this is the piano for you."
Don't you know with me, I'm born again.
The good news is my piano is going to be part of the theater! Or theatre, if you want to be insufferable. A barber shop quartet is using it to play the fake piano when they're on stage. Three of the four, or 75% if you want to be mathy, came over to GET said Silent Bob piano, and were they hilarious. Oh my god I loved them. Not as much as I love me, but still.
"Just shove it onto the truck!" one of them said. "Pretend it's a job. Take this job and shove it!" There was also an "if this truck is a-rockin' don't come a-knockin'" joke. They stayed after and had bottles of water. We made it into a whole party. And, I'm going to their next performance, in which my piano will be featured.
I loved that piano. I bought it for Marvin, whole and playable, back when we were first married. Eventually, Marvin gutted the thing and made it into a CD holder. Remind me to tell you the story of the guy who delivered that piano to me. It was his last piano delivery, ever, and he hated me. I told the story to Ned and he was in the stitches, Ned was. Or maybe he kind of smiled. Whichever.
Fortunately, we DID get to have fun on Saturday night. Just like the Bay City Rollers. Ned and I went to a goodbye party for a bladder, and I am not making that up. Someone Ned knows, someone just wonderful, has bladder cancer, and his surgery is coming right up, so his friends had a party way out yonder to say goodbye to that pesky, troublesome thing.
Look how cute Ned is. Hey, nice ass.
The party was in the country, and there were dogs and cats and chickens and roosters and guinea hens and ponies and basically it was my dream life, out there. Plus, there was barbecue and banana pudding. God, I love the South. Why haven't I always lived here?
There was also jalapeno macaroni and cheese, and Ned gasped. "It's like you and I had a child!" he said, knowing how deeply I feel about macaroni and cheese, and how he is about freaking jalapenos. And in case you wondered? YES. It.was.delicious.
There were two dogs there, and one of them walked right up to Ned, started staring at him, and never ever left his side after that. If I tried to pet that dog--and of course I did, 400 times--it would ignore me. Then she'd go back to mooning over Ned.
Anyway, once it got dark and we watched bats fly overhead (I freaking love bats), we headed back, because we'd both KILLED ourselves moving and packing all day. "You mind if we go to one of the bars near my house?" Ned asked, because there was this whole party thing going on downtown last night, and in fact for days they've been projecting animated cool images on the side of his building for some reason or another and it's cool as shit. Which if you think about it is a dumb swear, because shit is not that cool.
"Are you serious?" I asked, because frankly it was all I could do to shower, dress and look decent for the party we DID go to. But Ned took that personality test I made you all take awhile ago, and he's a Generalist, and his big fear is that he'll miss out on something. Ned would never be the guy to travel for work, check into a hotel and get room service. He'd absolutely HAVE to go explore the town. Explore-the-town people make my ass hurt.
But because I am an EXCELLENT not-at-all-fussy girlfriend, I hauled myself out for even MORE socializing, and five minutes in I was so busy looking at people that I forgot I hated Ned.
Fortunately we got to go home soon after, where we watched another Roosevelt episode and fell asleep on the couch. At least in this episode we finally got to Eleanor, who you know I love. I wonder if she'd have liked me? I feel like Eleanor Roosevelt would be so over me in the first 15 minutes of knowing me. At least I love me, as does Billy Preston and of course Syreeta.
I want you to call me Syreeta from now on. Remember when I made you call me Dimebag Wasabi for awhile?
Anyway, that wraps up my weekend, except for today when I pulled weeds and saw a movie with Ned. Then we packed. Son of a bitch. Have I mentioned all I can think about is where to get more boxes? I have boxes on the brain more than Michael Douglas.
I'm going, but oh! Don't let me forget to talk about The Joy of Sex and those ridiculous, so-needing-to-scream-to-the-waxer '70s line drawings, and also the nudist colony magazine I found when I was packing.
I leave you with my latest Purple Clover, which at least does not mention packing.