I hope all y'all all had good Valentine's Days; I had a lovely time. Because it's my holiday. And I am the gross kind of in love. And all that.
Ned sent me beautiful red tulips, and I wonder if he thought of the Sylvia Plath poem about red tulips when he sent them. Heaven knows I'd think of Sylvia Plath if I were dating me. Up there looking all perky behind my flowers is my coworker Deb Downer, the one whose licence plate reads TargetHeartRate or something equally healthy. The one who gets only gum from the vending machine. The one who brings water--WATER!--to birthdays so she isn't tempted to eat cake.
Water. I mean, if you're trying to get me off cake, you better bring a large glass of vodka and some Ben Wa balls or something. My point is, Deb looks really good, like 20-years-younger-than-she-is good. Also, I have never really experienced Ben Wa balls. But I look forward to the several pervs Googling them and finding this blog page in the future. Hi, pervs!
Oh my god, I have no idea how I went from Ned's beautiful flowers to this rather distasteful topic.
After work, I took special care with my appearance and got over to Ned's. My hair was extra curly because I'd dried it carefully. I wore my high-heeled boots for the first time in three months, since my ankle injury. "You look great," said Ned, who is always careful to compliment me. "What'd you do to your hair? Did you get a Jeri Curl or something?"
A Jeri Curl.
Ned gave me a large box of chocolates, and unlike my friend Deb I did not drink water to avoid the temptation. Pretty much the rest of the evening was me talking around whatever chew was in my mouth at the moment. Because, sexayy?
I had planned to bake something for Ned for his V-Day gift, but because I could literally not get out of my driveway due to snow and ice and ice, I instead cut up a bunch of strips of paper and filled a bag with reasons I love Ned. Once I got started there was no stopping me. "Good kisser." "Opens doors for me." "Pretends to love Edsel." The list went on and on.
We went to a happy Eugene O'Neil play after, because what says romance more than that life-affirming dude? It was a good play, though, and I cannot complain about my Valentine's Day.
This morning I had to scream out of bed and dash to the hairdresser, to fix my roots that did not really get covered last time. I can tell my hairdresser hated me and kind of thought I was trying to get free root touchup, but really. Did you guys not see how they were showing? I showed you right after it happened. Wait.
Anyway, she did it, and I felt guilty, but there you have it. As she was washing my hair resentfully, I noticed how pretty the space is where my hairdresser is, and I also noticed it, like all the buildings downtown, has exposed pipes and so on. Why is this a thing now? I mean, I like it, but since when did it become cool? Why don't we just rip a little of our walls out, expose the insulation while we're at it? Maybe later we could start exposing our own organs. "Oh, she's really cool. She has hardwood floors and an exposed small intestine!"
After my hair, I was effing starved, so I called Ned and we had lunch at this pub/restaurant place near his house that has exposed pipes. I forgot people go there to watch sports, and apparently there was a sport on, because the damn place was packed. We found a spot, and a few minutes later this man came in with a baby. He set the baby on a bar stool, and immediately I turned into my grandmother.
"Oh dear god, that baby's gonna fall right off that stool," I said, watching the carrier thing rock back and forth. "Somewhere there's a woman out there who'd be having FORTY FITS if she saw her baby right now." Where WAS the mom? Was she having a day off? If so, did she know her spouse was going to be schlepping the baby to the nearest bar? To balance precariously on a stool?
Not long after, this couple came and joined old Father of the Year and Rock-a-Bye-Baby. The woman was immediately enamored of said baby. Her male companion was all, "Oh hey. Hi, baby." But the woman did that thing people do, where she opened her mouth and eyes really wide, and stared into that carrier like that baby had a tablet showing David Beckham disrobing or something.
Anyway, eventually the woman's martini came, and I always wished I were the kind of person to be able to drink a martini. Not at 1:00 in the afternoon, but still. The idea of drinking when it's light out makes me sad, somehow. My point is, that woman paid NO ATTENTION to her martini. None. So enamored was she of that child.
Eventually she lifted it out of its thing, there, whatever you call it, and I do have to tell you that was one damn cute baby. It was one of those chubby-cheeked rosy big-eyed babies, and I know you're thinking, That's every baby, June, but you and I both know there are some riby, lemony, plug-ugly babies in the world, and people plaster them up on Facebook like you want to see them. You're all scrolling down your page when
someone's lemony baby appears, and you have burnt sockets for eyes.
Anyway, it really was a very cute thing, and I am not so creepy that I took a photo of someone's baby and put it up here, but my POINT is, alcohol abuse. She was letting that martini get room temperature, and there are sober people in India.
"Is there something wrong with us?" I asked Ned, who was similarly baffled at someone being so happy to look at a baby that she'd let her drink go to waste. "No, I...well, probably," said Ned, and I cannot wait till some 30-year-old chippie steals Ned from me and I run into him with five toddlers at the Home Depot or whatever. I mean, when you're a 48-year-old man, that possibility still exists. Look at David Letterman. Or Tony Randall, which who even knew he liked him the ladies?
Anyway, that was my last 24 hours, and I'm glad we had this time together. Now, go to the right thing. Don't let your martinis get warm.