I just spent 45 minutes gardening, and the fact that my arms are shaking annoys me. What am I, 73 years old? Don't answer that.
Yesterday, I had another harrowing day at work, and then I went to the Target, there, to refill my goddamn migraine meds. The Prednisone I took to stop them from coming every other day HAS helped, but I still have had five migraines in three weeks. Which is not, you know, great.
I was wandering around, waiting to get my prescription filled at the Chelsea Drug Store. I was standing in line with Mr. Jimmy...
...must everything devolve into a song with me?
So there I was, over in the root-dye section when who do I run into but Ned. Honestly, we can never break up, because we will run into each other everywhere and it will be traumatic, and do you like how I don't torture myself with dreadful dark bleak thoughts?
Not that Ned was dyeing his roots, by the way. He, too, was headed to the pharmacy, because we are 109 and maybe one day we'll get married and creep down the aisle on our festively decorated walkers with special white wedding tennis balls on the bottom, and anyway it was exciting to run into him.
"Hey!" I said. "What do you think? Am I dark blonde or light brown?" I had two kinds of root dye in my hands and was holding my hair up to the top of the box, where they show you the color your roots will supposedly turn.
"I think you're either," said Ned, who is not remotely metrosexual. "Where do you think they keep the needle and thread?" he asked. I mean, I admit I'm hilarious, but was he thinking I was about to launch into a whole funny hair-dye routine and he was gonna be stitching his sides?
"Why?"
"I thought tonight we'd sew on your buttons. And I'm gonna fix your ring, too."
Three buttons on my damn winter coat have fallen off already and when it's cold out I have to grasp the front of my coat dramatically. Speaking of which, my Aunt Kathy told me the other day that I should stop being such a drama queen. Allow me to direct the viewer to Exhibit A.
What I also wish is I had recorded Aunt Never Dramatic Kathy's latest voice mail to me, in which a bird "committed suicide" on her deck. "I CALLED THE NEIGHBOR!" she exclaimed, "BUT HE WASN'T HOME!!!! SO I DECIDED TO HONOR THE BIRD BY MOVING HIM TO THE GRASS, BUT WHEN I STARTED, THE PHONE RANG,--"
She said "the phone rang" the way you'd say, "And then Queen Elizabeth offered me oral sex" or some other event you'd never dream would happen.
"AND WHEN I GOT BACK!?!?!?!? THE BIRD!"
At this point she was screeching.
"THE BIRD HAD MOVED!!!!!! OH GOD, IT WAS THE WORST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO ME!!!!" she was in tears at this juncture.
I should point out that Aunt Kathy fears birds. Still. I saved the message to play for Ned, because I had droned on about her "you should stop being dramatic" pot/kettle pronouncement, and after I played it, Ned said, "You know who she sounds like? You."
Whatever with all you people.
So last night I went over to stitch-and-sew Ned's, and I swear to you he sewed on my coat buttons like it was a thing just anyone would know how to do.
Here are my buttons. And Ned's remote. Also a coaster. I mean, Still Life by June.
Who is the nicest boy, ever? Oh, but by the way, Ned was annoyed at us yesterday when you asked about my string bracelet, and I told you how he'd tied it on like an Eagle Scout or someone really into bondage, and you fell for the Eagle Scout thing but no one once thought maybe he was really into the leather and handcuffs and so on.
"So they see me as an Eagle Scout but not some dark dangerous sexual type?"
I think he's a little of both.
I held a flashlight while he sewed, because it was dark in there and we're 103.
I also took pictures of myself, because my NEW PHONE does this thing where it flips around and looks at YOU instead of photographing whatever's out there. Which is a metaphor for me, really,
My new phone, sorry, NEW PHONE also has Siri, which means I can speak emails and texts to people just like that annoying commercial with Zoey Deschannel. Mostly it is an amazing feature, except I was emailing Ned about the mahi mahi we're going to eat tonight, and it came to him in an email as "monkey monkey care." Which is also delicious.
Also, I meant to text Hulk "What does Mamba out mean?" because he writes that all the time now in his emails and it was irking, but what got sent to Hulk was "Fuck your mother." Which as we all know insults Hulk as a son and a husband.
Anyway, Ned also did fix my ring, which lost its stone, and now I am stitched and stoned and ready for a night of monkey monkey care.
Mamba out.
