Ned, despite his love for all movies depressing, is generally a happy kind of person. But yesterday he was in a mood. And that mood was not good. He'd had a stressful week and was not feeling sparkly.
...Nedkitty not feeling that chipper, either. cudd have to do wif girl beeng here again.
We had plans to go to Winston-Salem and watch a movie outside at that same place I had dinner with Whitman about a month ago--at the old Reynolds mansion and all the shops and gardens and restaurants and stuff. That place. They were showing To Kill a Mockingbird. Then the viewing audience was going to smoke Reynolds-brand cigarettes and literally kill mockingbirds in the area with secondhand smoke.
The point is, I finally acquiesced and got my roots done yesterday. You don't even understand. There was snow on the rooftop. I had some of that old white magic. I was a portrait of Juneian Gray. Had me some roots, is what I am saying to you. I was a redwood. Or a graywood.
And I have given up my Raleigh hairdresser. I have come to the conclusion I don't like her. She's one of those people who, if she is ever telling you a story about a black person? Uses a really exaggerated black-sounding voice when she is quoting said person. And waves her head around, as if every black person is Martin Lawrence's Sheneneh. It bugs.
Anyway. I decided to go to the Aveda Salon here in town (slogan: We rarely seem racist!). I had a very interesting hairdresser who majored in film, and I am sad to tell you she did not major in hair. Because the color is fine, but when she straightened my hair, it was still a little...fuzzy. It was not what you'd call sleek.
Then when I went outside after two hours at the salon? Rain. It was raining. It was raining like the dickens, whatever that means. This boded really super well for my hair, which did I mention was fuzzy when I left the salon?
And naturally I'd parked in Tibet. I was trying to be healthy and give myself a little walk to and from the car. Go, me! Go, frizz! By the time I got home, I looked like Garth of Wayne's World.
Party on, Faithful Reader Wayne. I am babelicious.
Really, Wayne's World was a funny movie. I don't care what you say. "If she were president, she'd be Baberaham Lincoln." Come on. That is hilarious.
At any rate, this led me to call Ned to say, "What now?" Because you know I am 100% a nature girl, but sitting on the wet ground to watch a mockingbird get murdered did not sound fun.
(Dear Person With No Sense of Humor: I have SEEN the movie. I know no mockingbirds were harmed in To Kill a Mockingbird. A ham hock? A little. Birds? No.)
"What do you mean?" Ned asked wearily. He had come home from work and gone straight to bed. There was no passing go, there was no eating a portobello. Bed. The end. Did I mention he was sparkling? And had missed the part where there was water coming from the sky?
Eventually we decided to go eat at the Reynolds mansion place anyway. Because it's important that we drive to Winston-Salem 75 times a month.
On the way there, Ned and I were talking about fortune cookies, and about how the Vietnamese place where he goes to lunch has less fortune cookies than opinion cookies. I can't recall my fortune from the time I went there with him, but I do know it was a tad preachy. Then he told me about one time? When he was chewing Bazooka gum? His fortune from the gum read:
Patience is a virtue. Seersucker is a fabric.
I don't know what to tell you, except I laughed, and I laughed, and I laughed. All the way to Winston-Salem. That tickled me, is what it did, and I fell over in the car, and laughed some more, and possibly did that thing where you stop breathing but you keep laughing anyway.
You know what I am? Not at all irritating when you are in a bad mood. How delightful to be in the car with old Chuckles the Clown, here. I was totally sitting on a feather.
We were in Winston-Salem, and I was over there stitching up my sides, when Ned said, "Do you actually know how to GET to this place?" He rubbed his head in kind of a weary way.
"Oh, sure!" I said brightly.
Tip from June: Never, ever believe me when I tell you I know how to get somewhere. I can't get anywhere. I can't get no satisfaction. I can't get arrested. Until last night, when I kind of did.
I'm sure I don't need to tell you what happened next, but it involved turning this way and that, and going down this road, then passing this landmark again, and Ned, WHOSE MOOD WAS SO GOOD, saying, "I think we're going in circles."
We were seconds from turning to butter when everyone's favorite event happened: blue flashing lights behind us.
"%#@$," said Ned, who perhaps I did not mention was in a poor mood. "What'd I even DO?" "Were you speeding?" I asked, knowing the answer. "Well, YES, but..."
The officer approached. "I stopped you for going 946 in a 35. Did you know the speed limit here?"
"No, sir, I did not," said Ned, who grew up in the South.
"WE'RE LOST!" I announced, trying to look cute and 27, which is approximately the last time I was cute enough to charm the police straight outta Compton.
"Yes, we are, sir" said Ned, warming to the subject. "We're trying to find Reynola Village. Can you help us?" I stuck my breasts out as far as possible. Had I had on pasties I would've swung them.
The policeman looked at us. Two fairly old people, one of whom was swinging imaginary tassles off her chest. We must have seemed not dangerous (thank GOD Ned didn't pick this moment to turn me in for hair dye thievery), so he said, "I'm gonna let you off with a warning, and have you got a piece of paper?"
I will be DAMNED if that cop didn't get us right to that mansion, where we purchased hookers and blow then knocked over a 7-Eleven. It was great! "That's the first time I've ever been let off with a warning," said Ned, who seemed even more weary than when the evening began.
"I have, but it's been a long time," I said, rubbing my OWN head because guess what. GUESS EFFING WHAT. Migraine. Was getting a migraine. I don't know why other than those sinks at the hairdresser set me off EVERY TIME, and the rain gives me one EVERY TIME, and forgetting to eat all day, which I had, makes a migraine come EVERY TIME. "I'm going to the bathroom to shoot my med up my nose. Get me an order of nachos," I said.
When I came back, I had to wait for the drugs to kick in, and the people behind us? Could they have BEEN ANY LOUDER? It was a whole family, and they were telling funny stories, and this is what my family does when we are together, and Ned was thinking it was nice, but I was shooting daggers at Ned hoping said daggers would bounce off him and zing over to the booth behind me.
"God, this is like that time I had the migraine and that kid was chanting at Target," I said. Ned, being not a faithful reader, had no clue what I meant. So I got out my phone and found that post, and LUCKY HIM, I read it to him.
Okay. I am sorry. But much like Baberaham Lincoln, that post was hilarious. I kept reading to him, and giggling at myself, and by the time I called the kid Sun-Ra, I was bent over the table in hysterics.
"You're gonna get your hair in your nachos," said Ned, who for some reason likes me anyway. I mean, I know he's in it for the pasties, but someone getting hysterical AT THEIR OWN BLOG takes the cake. The cake. It has been taken. And put in my hair.
Fortunately, we got home without incident, and Ned drove the speed limit TO THE LETTER, and today he is in a much better mood. It is because I am like a tonic. It is also because seersucker is a fabric.
