Last night I had drama with ...friend, but everything is okay now. I wish I could tell you all about it, but I feel like I'd need his permission to tell the story, and I similarly feel like he'd say, "You know what? No. It was bad enough living it in real life. Why rehash it on an Internet blog?" That's what he called my blog once, like he's 97 years old. My Internet blog.
The good news is, ...friend is the kind of person you can call, and you're all hysterical and possibly your hair is flying about twistily and your voice is all shaky, and five minutes later you have calmed down. Because he may or may not be the normal person in this scenario. I know that comes as a shock.
Here is an unretouched photo of my hair after my upsetty phone call to ...friend. Or, alternatively, here is a picture of my spiral perm and Persian cat in 1988. I have shown you this picture before but I feel like it bears repeating.
I loved that cat. His name was Confetti. I got him on New Year's Eve; hence the moniker. He was super floppy and slept on my head. He kind of looks like Gizmo from that one movie. What the hell was the movie? With Gizmo. That one.
WHY did no one stop me from getting a perm? Seriously. Why did no one step in?
In other news, Tallulah continues to wear her cone, and she coincidentally continues to hate me. But the second I feel bad and take that thing off, she lick lick licks her incision. Why can she not put two and two together?
I am also here at my temporary job, which I have been at for over a month now, and last pay period I did not get paid because there was some kind of waiting period, and now today I didn't get paid enough. I only got one week's worth of cash money. Fortunately they are straightening it out, which is good because I have seven dollars.
Also, the surgery center called to ask me a bunch of questions. Do I have sleep apnea? Am I a bleeder? Am I a breeder? How is my heart? Who is that guy with a sickle behind me?
So that was relaxing. Seeing as this is my THIRD operation to remove my effing fibroids, I am kind of familiar with the procedure. I could probably reach up there and do it myself. Anyway, Faithful Reader Laurie, we have to be there at 7:15 and that sounds delightful. Maybe they mean 7:15 p.m. and we can have cocktails first. What say you?
Oh! And before I go, I do have to tell you one more thing. Before I called ...friend with my upsettyness, I talked to my friend Sandy's husband. He is a genuinely nice guy, and I wanted a guy opinion that was not Hulk's. For once.
So I told him the story and he said, "What you've got here, June, is the Kobayashi Maru," he said.
The what, now?
"Yeah. It's a no-win situation. In Star Trek II and then Star Trek VI, Khan blooo de blooo bloo. And he bleep de beeee dee deeee, and he had Kobayahsi Maru. A no-win situation."
Will you remind me to stop asking men things?
Come to think of it, it was a man who gave me that spiral perm, too. June. Sensing a pattern. A swirly brown puffy pattern.
Your comments yesterday about your least-favorite songs were the funniest ever. I was in tears laughing. Everyone go read yesterday's comments. I'd cull them, and you know how I like to use the word "cull," but my deadline IS TODAY and I have to scream on here, write something, GO MEDITATE AND BE SERENE, and get my work done.
Then tomorrow I head for the Outer Banks, which I just typed "pouter banks" and I hope I do not end up pouting when I am there.
For a long time now, in fact probably since we installed it--and by "we" I mean not me--the dryer has been a pain in my arse. You have to dry clothes for 200 minutes. That is not one of my exaggerated numbers. The most the timer would go is 100, and I'd ALWAYS have to turn the timer all the way to the end twice before I didn't have I-live-in-Seattle damp clothes.
My mother has always insisted this was, you know, bad, and that I should do something about it, but I was very busy adopting cats.
On Saturday, I was doing some laundry and I noticed a smell. A burning smell. Burning. From the dryer. Well, that seems like not a good sign, I thought cleverly.
So yesterday I called Lowe's, where the dryer was purchased, and I got a man with quite the personality on him. Remember that movie with Robin WIlliams where the people were in suspended animation for decades and Robin Williams was a doctor and he got them out of that state and then the drug didn't work and they went back to being unanimated?
This guy was clearly on his way back to being unanimated.
"lowe's," he said, with all the excitement of a tree sloth. I told him my tale.
"Whatyear'dyoubuyit," he intoned, and it was like he was asking how long he had to live. "April 19, 2008," I said, because I am weird with dates.
"model."
"Oh, no. I mean, I really like having my picture taken, and I have a blog so a lot of people see me. But model? Ha! No. No."
"what model's yer dryer, ma'am."
"Oh."
Anyway, as much as I wished he himself and all his sparkling charm would have been the one to come over, they sent some guy from Snappy Appliances or some similar name.
"HOW YOU DOIN' MA'AM!" Now this guy had some oomph. And he loved my dogs. And he was male, so you know how Edsel got. Is it possible for a dog to grin? Because Edsel was doing so manically.
I was emailing ...friend about this whole scenario, who was surprised that I had failed to mention to him about the dryer, you know, catching fire the other day. "I'm taking care of it," I told him. "Right now I'm putting on makeup so the dryer guy approves of me."
"Now, see, had this happened to me, the next day I'm out getting t-shirts: Ask Me About My House Fire. But I guess one person's major episode is another person's reason to put on makeup," he wrote.
While I was reading ...friend's email, the dryer guy says, "Oh, wow." I do not think he was appreciating my makeup.
"Ma'am?" he came into the computer room. "Your vent is completely clogged with hair."
I guess none of us should be surprised by that news. Of course it was right then that Here's-My-Fur Lily made an appearance, furthering this guy's impression that I literally had a house made of follicles.
It turned out I needed a whole 'nother person to come: a vent guy. The hair was so bad I had to get a whole new, you know, vent. And YES. I clean that lint thing each time. When you are Bernie on Room 222 with your hair, a few swipes in the lint tray are not gonna do it.
Honestly it's like these people must sit around waiting for good times such as these. Because Vent Guy was over before I could even put my afro pick back in my pocket.
"Oh, wow," he said, back near my vent.
"You know what you don't want to hear from your vent guy?" I wrote ...friend. 'Oh, wow.'"
In the meantime, Edsel had his bedazzler out to add a "V" to his collar, because he has changed his name to Edsel Vent. If you thought he loved the DRYER guy, Vent Guy was like Rhett Butler swooping in to usurp Ashley Wilkes. There was no comparison.
"Dees is a nice dug," Vent Guy said. He had some kind of accent. You know all my accents sound Finnish. Vent Guy was Mediterranean, maybe? Hispanic? I don't know. All I know is my dog is taking him to the courthouse for a nice civil ceremony this weekend. They're getting a place on Fire Island this summer.
"Come loooook at dees, ma'am," said Vent Guy. Why do they always want to SHOW and EXPLAIN to you what's wrong? If I wanted to know from my vents I'd have gone to vent school. Just get the 95 pounds of hair out my dryer and be off with you.
Anyway I have a whole new hole in my house with a fancy vent that opens and closes instead of that old-fashioned metal thing that kind of looks like C-3PO, and yesterday I did a load of towels that took 50 minutes to dry.
FIFTY MINUTES! I feel how Ma Ingalls must have felt when she got new clothespins. It's all so high-tech.
He also gave me this giant brush that I have to stick in the dryer every three weeks to, you know, fish out the...hair.
Today the dogs, cats and I are going to a sheep farm somewhere and getting shorn.
I gots no time to gab today. I just woke up (don't ask) (okay, I was out late with ...friend.) and now I have to scream off to Raleigh to get my hairs done at 12:30.
The only way I knew there were storms was because I just read the comments from last night. Everyone check in and let the rest of us know how you are doing, in the comments. You know how Faithful Reader Sadie worries.
Here. I found this picture in my archives of Edsel and TinaDoris' dog. We can have a caption contest. I have a brand-new, still-in-the-package tube of Cover Girl Lash Blast mascara that I hate. WHAT A PRIZE! Anyway, you know I'll never send it to you so CAPTION AWAY. Oh, and if a boy wins the contest, I will [not] send you inflatable toast.
I'll do comment of the week tomorrow. By the way, Hulk has been comment of the week all week. I sent him some mascara.
Before I tell you about the worst date of all time, which in fact is not even true because once in 1988 a guy picked me up already drunk then told me I was white trash before appetizers, and really THAT one was worse, I have two important details to tell you, even though last night's date said, "Why does anyone want to read your minutiae?"
So hang on while I fill you in on the minutiae, will you?
Minuatiae #1: I really haven't been talking to Marvin a lot, but yesterday I was driving to Raleigh and America's Top 40 with Casey Kasem was on. Is it Kasey Kasem? I'd look it up but I don't feel like it because I am in a bad mood. On my satellite radio, every Saturday they'll play America's Top 40 from the current week, but from a year from 1970-1979. This week they were playing 1979.
Well. You know that's a good year. So I am afraid I called Marvin and got his voicemail. And perhaps I may have sung Don't Cry Out Loud by Melissa Manchester.
You know, I never insist you watch the embedded video. Dude. Today I insist. I don't care if you're driving. I don't care if you're gonna get fired. It is seriously the most disturbing thing you have ever seen.
Anyway, you know how I am. Oh, how I bellowed into Marv's voicemail, because you know how he always enjoyed my singing voice. And how I was not banned from singing in the house at all.
What I did not know was that Marvin was at a conference, right next to his boss, and that he tried to surreptitiously listen to his voicemail during some lecture, and apparently the DON'T CRYYYYY OUT LOUUUUUD! Just keep it inSIIIDE! was so loud, people starting turning around to look at him.
Do you know who misses me?
Minutiae #2: Once I got to my hairdresser, she came around to the side of my face to paint on some color, and she said, "If your eyelashes get any longer they're gonna look FAKE! Holy crap!"
I adore my Latisse. So bad.
Anyway, finally it was time to paint on a smile and take up with some clown, so I headed over to the restaurant to meet my date. And just to recap, I went out with this guy once, in October, literally two days after Daniel Boone and I broke up. I sobbed the whole way to the restaurant, dried my eyes because I am not one of those people who get all blotchy after crying, had THE BEST TIME, then got in the car and cried the whole way home.
So I didn't see the guy after that because I was too caught up in the Daniel Boone thing, but at Christmas this guy'd emailed me and I said, "You were so great. Whatever happened, there?" and he was all, "I'll tell you what happened. You broke my heart a little because I thought we had a great time." So we decided to go on another date.
I walked in and there he was and he is still really cute. He is. Even though he may as well slapped me repeatedly with a bag of marbles and the evening would've been more rewarding, I do have to say he is cute.
"You look really good!" he said. So, yay. We think the other is attractive. That pretty much ended the positive portion of the evening.
I thought things were going well, as the conversation was flowing, but the thing is, if you're with me there's never gonna be a lull, you know? So maybe I should stop using that as a gauge. "So, in these three months, all you've had are casual dates? Nothing has stuck?" I asked him.
"No, that's not exactly true. There is one person who's asking for exclusivity and I said I'd think it over."
"When did that happen?"
"Thursday."
...!
"So, am I the deciding factor? I feel awful."
"No, no. I went out with someone last night, too. You're not the deciding factor."
So that was disconcerting. And then he said, "I don't think I'd want to keep up with you. It's too exhausting. All the witty banter back and forth. I don't know if I'd want to work that hard."
Wow. I mean. Wow. Where is it written that if I say something funny you have to say something hilarious back? Is that what people think? Am I that scary? I don't WORK to say funny things back. And every single thing I say isn't hilarious. I'm no Shecky Green.
THEN...yes, then, there's more, he said, "I don't know. I think you're too intimidating. With the being smart and quick and famous."
Famous? And smart and quick are bad things?
And that's when he started trashing my blog. "What IS your blog address, anyway? I know you're gonna write about me, and I stopped reading it last time after I wasn't mentioned anymore. I really don't get your blog."
There have been times in my life when in retrospect I've thought, why didn't I just get up and leave? And last night was one of those times. Honestly I was so stunned that it took me till I got halfway home to even feel anything.
And that thing was rage.
But at the moment, I handed him my fancy new blog card. "Oh, the woman I'm seeing would hate this. She'd get all suspicious about what this was."
"So, are you going to decide to see her exclusively?" I asked. I caught on because I'm quick. And famous.
"Yeah, I'm gonna do it." And then he got out his phone and showed me pictures of her and began reading her texts.
So I went on a date with someone and they decided they wanted to be exclusive. With someone other than me. Honestly, am I covered in Repulsivity Shield? I know that isn't a thing but I swear I have it. Kind of like gingivitis. Didn't advertisers just kind of make that up?
I called Tall Boy on the way home, who I am seeing a movie with today and who by the way is also seeing someone exclusively, and did I ever tell you we broke up because he wasn't ready to date exclusively?
"I GIVE UP!" I screeched at Tall Boy. I told him the whole story, and he insisted my blog is hilarious, which believe it or not was the worst part of all that, and somehow TB knew that and I'm glad that's what he dwelled on. "I mean, your minutiae is funny. If you can make that crap funny, people read it."
Then he had to go email the woman he's dating exclusively.
Oh my god, I hate everything. Oh! But my hair is good! Here:
FYI, am never getting out of Christmas flannel pajamas, so enjoy them. It is my version of Miss Havisham. I will be Miss Havingalife.
Sorry. The coffee pot just beeped again. When am I gonna get used to that jarring beeping noise?
Last night I went to First Friday with The Fireman. Because I'm all about alliteration.
Yes, he DID make me stop at look at his beautiful firehouse. It really was beautiful. Then he told me some relative had bought him a book on old firehouses. "Oooo, really?" I said.
The Fireman laughed. "What's worse, that I told you someone bought me that book, or that you sound actually interested in it?"
See. I would PORE over a book like that. You know I love all that old-picture crap.
In case you were worried sick, First Friday is an event held the first Friday of every month, where the businesses downtown stay open and they have bands on the street and people walk around drunkenly in galleries and so forth. I went to First Friday with Dick Whitman last month, if you'll recall. Because you pay attention to my every move.
I just realized you can see The Fireman's outfit reflected in this picture. I complimented his shirt and he said, "Really? I liked it too but everyone told me to go for my blue polo shirt."
Who felt like the man in this situation? I came home last night and yanked down the first remotely flattering thing that was clean. He consulted his FRIENDS about what to wear. And...success! Because I complimented it. And that is what you want in every situation. My approval. Please consult me daily re your wardrobe. Thank you.
I almost didn't even GET to First Friday to frolic with The Fireman. I had a migraine yesterday because it had been raining on and off, which always does it for me, so I had to take my meds and wait, and I finally was able to get in the car and once I was POINT THREE FIVE MILES from our destination? A TRAIN was STOPPED in my way. A train. Stopped. It was stopped in front of this cool building above, though, and I was able to admire it.
I texted The Fireman. "Turn around, go to this street, turn right," he said. I did. Guess what. TRAIN! It was there too! Trains are big.
"Okay, turn right, go down here," he said. I did. "ROAD CLOSED AHEAD" read a sign. It was at this point I started giggling hysterically. "God does not want us to be at First Friday." I texted him. "Well, I got here. God doesn't want YOU at First Friday," he wrote.
Finally God relented and I got there almost 45 minutes late. I had said I would buy the drinks beause The Fireman had said he would buy dinner, but when I got there he wouldn't hear of it.
I kind of like that in a man, I have to tell you. Hi, Gloria Steinem.
Here is The Fireman paying for everything.
We spent a lot of time watching people and discussing their stories, as we completely invented them, and I took many many pictures of people that I now realize I can't possibly put in this blog. Like the poor guy who The Fireman said did not have a forehead, he had an eighthead. "I'm glad I have hair, still," he said.
Oh! And he told me I could not tell you this part so now I will. We were at an outdoor restaurant but it was so covered in trees that the drizzly rain couldn't really get to us, but I had said, "I apologize in advance for the 'fro you are about to witness."
So awhile later I emerged from the bathroom. Because you know I like to cough everything back up after I eat. "There's a cigarette machine here," I announced. "A real one?" Fireman asked. "Yeah, not like an Art-O-Mat or anything," I said.
"Art-O-Mat?"
Naturally I stampeded to the story of the Art-O-Mats, and how I love them, and how my friend Charlie sells his art in them, and where they can be found in North Carolina, and I finally took a pause when The Fireman said, "Your hair doesn't look bad."
"WHAT?"
"You said your hair was gonna look bad in the rain but it looks great."
"I was telling you the FASCINATING story of the Art-O-Mat and you were observing my potential HAIR fallout?"
He said that story made him sound like a dick but I don't think it does. Plus he doesn't read my blog so he'll never know I told it. He decided reading my blog might be a bad idea since the last two people I dated read it and we all broke up with each other.
So it was a good evening. This is a two-month-old Boston Terrier who you may be shocked to hear I ran over to and fell in love with. It was dark. This was the best I could do with my stupid iPhone. Dooce I am not.
Comment of the week is going to Just Paula, the artist formerly known as Paula H&B. This is probably the 749th time she has gotten this coveted award but everything that hussy says is hilarious. Even her relatively racist Indian comments. Hi, Faithful Reader Nithya who I think is Indian.
June. Driving readers away with her virulent racism since 2011.
Yesterday I tried to walk off the humiliation of my recent humiliation. (Once I was in a car accident, and my then-boyfriend rushed sort of dramatically to the ER. They thought I had just a mild concussion, but when I went to swing my legs off the table to go? My legs wouldn't move. At all.
"This happened to me in football all the time, June," said the boyfriend. "You're stiff from the impact. You just gotta WALK IT OFF. Walk it off."
My pelvis was broken in three places. But thanks for the medical tip there. Bub.)
First thing yesterday I had to take the kittens for their next round of shots. Are shots just a scam? Because I have spent $9983949 on these mutty cats so far.
One of us was very easy to work with and let the vet do her job.
One of us was leapy and squirmy and meowy and bad. My kittens. They are Goofus and Gallant.
After I took out a small business loan to pay for that, I had to scream on over to Raleigh to get my roots done. It's about an hour-and-a-half drive, but everyone in Greensboro turned my hair white or orange, so it's worth it. Plus, I went to the John Freida salon in LA, which took about an hour to drive to from my house, so what's the diff?
Anyway. I have satellite radio, and on Saturdays they'll replay a Kasey Kasem's American Top 40 from the current week, but from sometime in the '70s. This is usually extremely enjoyable. However THIS week they were featuring a special top 40 disco tunes, and despite my Barry Gibb propensity I do not want to listen to an hour and a half of disco.
So I flipped around and came across this song.
I was all, They are not playing Rick Springfield right now. I mean, when's the last time you heard effing Rick Springfield?
I'll tell you the last time I did. When Marvin and I would go on trips, every time we stopped for gas he'd go inside to see if they sold bad music. He'd emerge with Minnie Pearl's greatest hit, or Fiddle Favorites, and one time he came out with The Best of Rick Springfield. I sighed, and then we jammed out to the Rick Springfield all the way to wherever we were going.
"Who knew Rick Springfield had so many good songs?" I remember saying like it wasn't shameful.
Anyway, when this song came on yesterday, I totally remembered driving to an away football game with my high school friends Steve, Dave, Matt and Kevin in Steve's blue Chevette. I had a lot of friends who were boys in high school. Men are uncomplicated, generally. I remember speeding down the freeway, drinking incredibly cheap beer, and instead of singing "I've done everything for you" we sang "I've fu**ed every girl but you."
Hi, Dick Whitman's mom.
We were totally the setup for one of those don't drink-and-drive videos they show you before prom. Drinking and throwing the empties into the hatch of Steve's Chevette. And I love how I sang along to that crude line like I could.
Anyway. After my roots were rightfully covered again and my hairdresser managed to take everything I started to talk about and make it about her, I headed back home and the phone was ringing when I got in. It was a woman from my real-life book club who wondered if I wanted to go to sushi.
Sushi makes me nervous. You know how I don't like the barfing. And raw fish? Are you asking for it? But I said yes and figured I'd be one of the embarrassing people who gets chicken teriyaki.
Here I am walking to sushi. Who needs to stop documenting every second of her life?
We met in the college-y part of town, and it's college-y because it's where one of the colleges is. Had you figured that part out on your own? I like it there, in the college-y part.
There's cool stuff there.
Although as I was walking to the restaurant, two college kids were having coffee and one of them said, "Do you like that one song, I think it's by John Lennon. It goes 'Imagine there's no heaven'...?" And the girl said, "No, I don't."
....!
First of all, you THINK it's by John Lennon? You think? And who doesn't like that song? Everyone I know likes that song. It's like not liking Happy Birthday to You. "No." It took everything I had not to stop and scold them both.
But I had sushi to not eat.
It occurred to me I had never talked about my book club friends on my blog, so I said, "You guys want blog names?" How annoying am I to hang out with?
Carla decided on Carla because that was the name she used when she played house, as opposed to old Helen, over here. I was always Helen. And I loved Tic-Tacs, so I used to pretend I was addicted to pills, and would greedily shake the container in my hand and gobble them. Helen needed her dolls.
My other friend hemmed and hawed and hawed and hemmed and thought of this name and that and said she just didn't want to be Hibiscus Flower, which is some character from a pretentious PBS show she watches.
So here is Hibiscus Flower, gettin' her sushi on.
And here is my tuna steak, which isn't cooked much more than sushi, so I don't know where I get off.
Afterwards, we all retired to my house, Carla, Hibiscus Flower and me, and I read everyone's tarot cards. I am not being Rod Stewart. I really read everyone's tarot cards. Hibiscus Flower has two dogs of her own and does a lot of animal rescue, and she did a lot of trying to get Edsel not to be an ass while she was here.
Edsel is in the back yard barking maniacally at nothing as I type this. Hibiscus needs to come back.
So that's all I have to say about that. Dick Whitman will be here shortly, and yes I DID just call you shortly, as we are going to brunch at a hotel near me. I told him not to get excited about the hotel part, as this is not The Graduate.
Yesterday I hauled myself out to Raleigh, there, to get my roots done because I was rootin' out. If I were in a garden, I'd be one of the root vegetables. If I were having a good time, it'd be a rootin' tootin' one. I would be the home team, because someone has clearly been root-root-rooting for me.
You get my drift. I had some roots. Is what I had. If I were tea, I'd be Earl GREY.
So I knew it was gonna RAIN, I mean, I saw that on the weather thingie on my home page. It had the thunder and lightning picture up. So fine. It would rain while I got my rootage done. Who cares?
It was looking kind of ominous as I drove, and I can't remember who I told, "I like this kind of weather" but I do. I like drama queen weather. It was all close outside, you know what I mean? All damp and foreshadowy and darkish and "something's gonna happen!" like.
Anyway, I got to my hair appointment and settled in for the three hours it takes for my hairdresser to paint out the gray and prattle on endlessly. I never have to say a word while I'm there. I just lift my eyebrows occasionally or maybe murmur a "mmm!" every 45 minutes, and she talk talk talk talk talks. At one point, every time I see her, she says, "How did I get off on THAT tangent?
Really? Because all you ever DO is get off on tangents. And you wonder how you got off on that parTICular one?
Anyway, her salon is in an old brick building, with several other small salons in it, but hers faces the street. She took a break from her jabbering to say, "What time is it?"
"I don't know," I said, turning on my iPone. "Three-fifty or so?"
"Why is it dark out?" she said, heading toward the window.
You guys. It was PITCH BLACK outside. I mean, it had been raining, and thundering and lightning, and we had remarked on that, and in fact since she and I both grew up in the Midwest, we had even mentioned tornadoes, and you'll be surprised to hear she told a whole story about how tornadoes freak her out, because they freaked her dad out, who survived a horrific one where he actually grabbed and saved a naked twisting woman who flew past him in the air with all broken limbs.
She had gone on (!!) to say that as a child, her dad would shuttle them all to this concrete closet in the cellar and make her wear a motorcycle helmet any time there was the slightest tornado warning.
And now the sky was black. BLACK, folks.
Without hesitating, she turned from the window and ran to the next salon. I sat in the chair with dye on my head for awhile but finally looked in the hall.
Every other patron was surrounding a radio, looking stricken. They were listening to a TV station coming through the radio.
"We have lost power here at the TV station. We are coming to you from the basement of the studio. This is a life-or-death situation, listeners. Seek shelter immediately if you are in downtown Raleigh. Again, a tornado has touched down in downtown Raleigh."
"Are we in downtown Raleigh?" I asked. I had no idea. I just drive to the same salon every few months and then go home again.
Everybody shot me a terrible look as they strained to listen, which led me to glean we were so in downtown Raleigh.
"Trees are being uprooted," said the radio, as our lights flickered in the salon hallway. One of the other patrons screeched. "Roofs have been torn off. Again, SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. This storm is very dangerous."
It was very War of the Worlds, with the announcer in his basement and all.
My hairdresser was visibly shaking and the screecher was kind of crying into her wadded-up Kleenex.
"So, I kind of don't wish to be remembered this way," I said, my head slicked back with brown paint. "Is there, like, time to rinse me before we seek this shelter?"
I don't know why I wasn't scared but I totally wasn't. I guess because I have lived through 8,000 tornadoes in Michigan growing up, and also because we were in a brick building, and also just because I was probably in huge denial. But I felt like we were gonna be okay.
My hairdresser led me back to the sink. "Let's hurry and do this and get to the basement. I'm kind of freaking out right now."
"Well, if it's okay to leave the dye in, we can go to the basement now," I offered. See how generous I can be? I was totally willing to be all hideous dye-in-her-hair Pompeii woman, found with a stupid 'do for all time.
"No, they'll tell us if they hear anything else on the radio. Let's get this out of your hair."
I totally did not get the nice head massage that I usually get, which let me tell you was reflected in her tip.
By the time she washed and rinsed and neutralized and conditioned me, the other salon guy said the tornado had gone on to greener pastures, where by the way it ripped a whole roof off a Lowe's, and killed people, and did all sorts of damage. I mean, this was a serious tornado. It was not one of your happy-go-lucky tornadoes.
My poor hairdresser was still shaken and I told her she could call her family if she wanted but she seemed to just want to keep working on my stupid hair. "What style are we going for with your blow-dry?" she asked.
"Let's go for kind of a wind-swept look," I said.
Really, she failed to appreciate me all afternoon. I had some good material, there, and I am hoping that in the cool light of reason she can look back and enjoy my funny funny self.
The drive home was not pretty, as I had to keep swerving past downed trees and huge branches and the occasional hailstorm that passed through.
As if painting the dining room and the hutch and waiting to hear about my MRI weren't fun enough, this morning I've been shopping for car insurance. I know!
Marvin is taking me off his car insurance, and fortunately I am on Mint.com, which one of you mentioned in Pieces of Wisdom as being a good way to manage your finances. I've been using it ever since and I would marry it if it were legal to marry a website. June Mint. Or maybe I'd be June .com.
Anyway, there was just one button I had to click and it led me to all the car insurance sites, and they are sending me quotes. They are SUPPOSED to be emailing me a dollar figure, and all the ones who are (a) calling and saying, "Call us back!" or (2) emailing and not giving me a quote but wanting to me contact them are getting ignored by June Mint, over here.
So far Geico is winning, which is good because I like their commercials best.
June Mint. Savvy consumer.
Also too, Marvin and I took the dogs for a walk, and every time we do something together and I can't help but think it might be the last time we do such a thing together. Everything has a last-episode-of-the-Mary-Tyler-Moore-Show feel to it and what I like about myself are my current references.
We came up to the Snowflake house and you'll never guess what. They got a puppy.
!!!
I didn't have to say a thing. I just handed Talu's leash to Marvin and headed over there. "YOU'RE BACK!" the oldest one screamed at me, as though my walking past weren't something that happened 12 times a day.
"WE GOT A PUPPY!" bellowed the middle one. "I GOT LIP GLOSS!" She ran over to show me. "IT'S MINT!" Maybe she was talking about my new last name. That just occurred to me.
Anyway, that teensy gold puppy was the cutest most ridiculous ball of cute cuteyness you have ever seen in your entire life. She is clearly from the Snowflake family, which makes me wonder what kind of orgy situation Snowflake's relatives have going on over where Snowflake was reared.
"WE'RE PRETENDING SNOWFLAKE IS THE MOM AND THE PUPPY IS THE BABY!"
"Come here, sweetheart!" I said, and that ludicrously cute ball of fluff stumbled over to me like a shot.
"YOU WANNA HOLD HER? WE NAMED HER GOLDILOCKS!"
Furthering my theory that this family takes half a blink to think of pet names.
You can imagine how I turned down the offer to hold her. "Oh, no. I'm pressed for time." Please. Oh, I held that puppy, and kissed her, and she kissed me, and she sniffed in my ear like they do, and she was so fluffy, and I hugged her and cooed at her, and I said to the girls, "Look how this puppy is just the same color as my two dogs over there!"
There was a pause.
For the first time, the oldest girl spoke quietly to me.
"Can I have my dog back now?"
Geez! I wasn't gonna STEAL it! You know, much. Maybe I was just gonna offer to take it for a DAY.
And then it got worse. She said, "Do you remember when you used to come over? When your hair didn't...do that?" She looked at my short Meridith Baxter 'do searchingly.
Oh those silky-haired flaxen brats. I am stealing that puppy the minute I get the opportunity. I am so Cruella DeVilling them. When my hair didn't DO that. I am so sure.
All right. I am off. I have to buy insurance, find out if I'm gonna live or die, give the hutch a second coat, steal a puppy, shave three children bald--I'm swamped.
A few days ago, I mentioned that I had a bunny in college. My friend Dottie was kind enough to email me a photo of that lovely time of my life.
Let's talk.
First off, how did I not puncture poor waving Roxanne with those nails? What was going on, there? Did I have a part-time job unscrewing things with those nails? Was I digging grout out of something?
And I KNOW I thought I was cute with that hair. I thought I was the shizz.
Also too, a few years ago I just strolled right into my old dorm. No one suspected the part where I am a total freshman-loving perv and I was not stopped. I walked right up to 273, my old room, and two girls were in there with the door open, and their small TV was in exactly the same place Liz and I had our TV in 1984. Killed me.
Neither of them had my hairdo, though.
While I'm on the subject of Dottie, which I vaguely was, the kitten she found is still in need of a nice home. Dot lives in Michigan.
"i sweet. i good wif Dot's other catz. i not mind her heeug dog. i weigh four. mostly i fur. wish you could hear ant joone's squeekee kitty voice she has in her hed while she write this."
So that's that.
Finally, I wanted to let you know I drove all the way to Raleigh yesterday to buy a latte. As you do.
There's a Norman Rockwell exhibit in Raleigh, and I am sorry I like Normal Rockwell. I know this makes me vanilla, and middle-of-the-road, and uncool and I am supposed to be road tripping to see Kandinsky or something, but Norman Rockwell makes me happy.
Marvin had his usual Sunday band ridiculous practice, and sometimes I'd like to email the other wives to see if it irks the CRAP out of them that their husbands take off in the middle of EVERY Sunday for band practice. So the point is I went alone.
I go to Norman Rockwell alone. Yeah-ah with nobody else. You know when I go to Norman alone, I prefer to be by myself.
You can take me out of Michigan...
So on the way, I notice there was a Captain D's at one of the exits. Oh, I love me some Captain D's. It is kind of like Long John Silver, with the fried fish and the friend hush puppies and the fried fried bits at the bottom of your tray. Oh!
Naturally, I made a detour, because fish is brain food.
"Y'all want vinegar with that?" they asked me at the drive-thru. Of COURSE I want vinegar with that. The fried fried bits at the bottom are DELISH with vinegar on them.
Can you guess what happened? CAN YOU GUESS? Who spilled vinegar all over herself, then forgot there was a packet of spilled vinegar all over again so she dipped her coat AND PHONE in the vinegar 10 minutes later, and I just kept thinking when I got to the museum people would have thought I'd stopped off at the Festival of Douches or something.
"My, that woman must have quit her job getting grout out and gone on to professionally dye Easter eggs."
The point is, the museum was packed. PACKED. And you could not find parking and I have to go to Raleigh later this week again for my hair appointment (Ima bring in that Roxanne photo and ask her to revamp that hair look. What say you?), so I bagged the whole plan. I will go during the week. I stopped off and got a latte and drove back home.
At least I was fresh as a spring breeze. A spring malty breeze.
Okay, I'm off. Today Ima clean the house with my Martha Stewart how-to-clean-your-house book, so by the time Marvin gets home I should be completely bitchy. It's a good thing.
First of all, thank you all so much for all your kind words yesterday. Marvin said, "Look how many people are in support of our failing marriage!"
Did I mention he bugs me? Did I mention he's the president of his local Optimists' Club?
But really, we were both very moved by how many people are on our side. And for those of you who emailed me personally, if I have not written you back, do not be offended. I heard from a lot of you and haven't had a chance to write back yet.
In the meantime, one of the things we talked about was that we needed to find something we liked to do as a couple. All of our hobbies involve, you know, not each other. Like that 28-year-old Brazilian diver I like to hang out with. I never invite Marvin along.
See. Now I can't make jokes like that cause you'll all be, "[Gasp!] June is having an affair with a 28-year-old Brazilian diver."
Okay, really? Is he a BLIND diver? Is he a Dumpster diver? Did I leave out the "1"? Is he a ONE HUNDRED and 28-year-old Brazilian diver?
Anyway. So Marvin thought the coming-up-with-a-mutual-hobby thing was a good idea, too.
"How about we train to climb Mt. Everest?" said Marvin, who is an idiot.
"Yeah, no," I said.
"We could get really into old cars," said Marvin, who is really into old cars.
"How about we raise a puppy together?" I asked.
So you can see how well that is going, with the compromise and the thinking of the other person and so forth. I really thought this would be an excellent time to angle for the new puppy. Maybe we could get a St. Bernard puppy, to help us with the climb up Mt. ridiculous Everest.
But one thingMarvin DID do in light of our recent trying to like each other attempts, was upload my hair video. I have been asking him to do this forever.
In 1992, I was living in Seattle with my friend Steve, who went to Costco one afternoon. When he returned, he popped in a video he had MADE at stupid Costco. For 15 dollars, you could select a bunch of ludicrous hairdos and they would make a video of you in said 'dos. Seeing as Steve was LOSING his hair, these hairstyles were particularly hilarious.
Naturally we hopped right in the car and headed back to Costco so I could also make a video.
It is the best $15 I ever spent. I cannot tell you how many times since 1992 I have made people watch this reeDUNKulous video (veedeo), with the hep record scratching music and my unlined 1992 forehead and the lovely tasteful hairstyles I picked out.
My friend Marianne used to REQUEST that we put the video in when she came over, so when we moved away from each other I had a copy made for her for her birthday. Because I'm a good friend like that.
So without further ado (get it?), please enjoy my hair video. And I don't care if you're at work. Crank up the music. Because everyone around you is gonna wanna back that arse up, and do some air-scratching of records.
