If you want the abbreviated version of Ned's birthday, because you have to run or something, it was sex, food, thunderstorm, sex, Tracy Anderson workout, food, thunderstorm, sleep, sex.
At some point in the day, I asked Ned, "Is my hair ridiculous?" Please see the events of the last 24 hours, above. Usually, Ned says, "No, your hair is beautiful." Yesterday he looked right at left, at the wide berth that is my hair, and just laughed.
Okay, FINE. You're rolling into your 50s with Biggus Hairus. Live with it.
Yesterday morning, when there was still hope for my hair, we went to a diner, where I ordered poached eggs from the screechiest-voiced waitress ever invented. "We make them coddled," she screeched, and I don't care what kind of childhood they had, just slide me some eggs, boo.
There was another waitress who had two teensy carrots crossed over each other behind her ear. I don't mean literally, although that would have been hilarious, but rather a TATTOO of crossed carrots. Ned and I obsessed over what it meant, and I had every intention of asking her, but she never walked past our table. We had a shitty table, which was kind of the theme of this weekend, really. Good food, shitty tables. At this particular spot, we were near the lunch counter and the front door, so someone was buzzing past us constantly. Or hovering. Two waitresses would stop to talk, hovering half an inch from us. But with all that buzzing and past-ing, carrot waitress never walked on by.
I really hate, "How's everything tasting?" by the way. When did this become a thing people need to say? How's everything tasting. It just kind of makes me cross. Carrots.
In the afternoon, I headed to the grocery store to get ingredients to make Ned's peach cobbler, and I know an efficient individual, such as my grandmother, would have purchased said ingredients ahead of time, and had them all ready on the counter like on a cooking show. On the other hand, my grandmother was constantly cranky, and...
Oh, shut up.
The point is, on the way there, I got an aura. It's a migraine thing, where one eye is totally filled with zigzag patterns and static and I can't see a fukkin' thing, as Iris would say. I have no idea why I got one yesterday, other than the impending thunderstorms, which can make me all migraine-y. The point is, I had to pull over, because I was totally blind. Well. If you interpret that in NOT dramatic, it means I was mostly not able to see.
I'd pulled over in the parking lot where I get pedicures, and although I had no intention of getting a pedicure, as cash is low at Bank of June, after sitting in the blazing car, blind, for 10 minutes, I stumbled in there. "Pedicure," I said weakly, and grabbed any bottle of polish, because I could not really see the bottles.
I sat in the pedicure chair with my eyes closed, but the pedicure man was suddenly interested in chatting me up. He's done my nails a hundred times and has never wanted to say word one to me, which is what I like about him. Yesterday he could not get enough of my shut eyes and pained expression.
Was I married? Oh, how long have I been divorced (three years today, actually)? Kids? Why no kids? Who will take care of me when I'm older? (I love that question. Like having kids is guaranteed senior care.) How long was I married? How old was I when I GOT married? Am I dating now? Oh, how long? (Have I been DATING him, perv.)
After all that, he was silent a moment.
"You don't LOOK 50," he said, having just done the maths in his intrusive little head. And that right there made it all worth it.
By the time my nails were done, I could see again, and I got hold of Alarmed Ned, who thought I'd be at the store for 10 minutes. He was Even Alarmeder Ned when I told him what had happened, but really, once the aura passed, I felt fine. And it was then that I realized, I'd done the Best Thing Ever.
I'd picked a color that just exactly matched my shoes. Without realizing it! I could see enough to tell I'd chosen a nail polish that was kind of light and shiny, but that was the best I could do at the time. But behold! Behold my brilliance! The 50th anniversary is gold, so maybe I chose it subconsciously because of Ned. I certainly chose it blindly.
When my gold toes and I got home, Ned kept telling me to make the cobbler tomorrow, to rest my eyes or whatever, but I really was fine then.
And I made the best peach cobbler on planet Earth. Here is the recipe. Because June's blog. Come for the retro-ness of someone still having a blog. Stay for the recipes once every four years.
"GodDAMMIT, that smells good," said Ned, and I convinced him to have dessert before dinner, because now that he's 50, he's livin' large. We ended up each having TWO pieces of cobbler, and then when we got shittily sat right next to the kitchen at the restaurant, we weren't even really hungry. We both got salmon, and I was facing a man of color cooking in the kitchen. It took Ned awhile to look in the kitchen, but once he did, he got quite a kick out of it. "I notice you're not complaining about where we've been sat anymore, June," he said.
Because a handsome 24-year-old man of color is surely looking at All My Hair and my 49-ness and my two pieces of cobbler on m'hips and saying, Break me off a piece of that.
After that, we went to this pretentious but lovely wine bar and ran into some friends, and then to the dive bar in our neighborhood, where I saw a mastiff puppy, so all my needs were met. Plus, I was able to look down at my gold polish and silently squee repeatedly.
"When I look back on my 50th birthday, I'll remember I was in love with a beautiful woman, and that I was happy," said Ned. As soon as I find that woman and kick her ass, I will report it live on this blog.