Well, it's back to work today. My water and I are back to work. By the way, I still look completely the same. It's day five! Shouldn't I be miraculously young-looking and incredibly hydrated by now?
Instant gratification takes too long. (c) Carrie Fisher, my favorite person on earth now that Nora Ephron is dead.
Yesterday, I schlepped over to Winston-Salem, for a change, and got my free facial. Well. It wasn't free. I bid on it at Charlie's fundraiser in January, but whatever. Anyway, this woman with sophisticated glasses and cool hair came out. "Joooon Giirdins?" She had the strongest Southern accent humanly possible. It was hilarious. She was all sophisticated on the outside and sounded like Junior Sample from the inside.
"Let's tauk about yer fayce," she began, so I told her my woes. She looked at my skin under a magnifying glass that can pick out each atom. Yeesch, that thing was huge. Turns out I have sun damage. Hunh. That's not possible. Pay no attention to the reflective mat and 0 SPF Ban de Soliel I slathered on myself all summer between ages 12 and 25.
Sun damage. Pfft.
Then she had me close my eyes while she wafted "thrieeeee sceynts" over my nose. I picked the first scent, which turned out to be lavender, and I am nothing if not sort of consistent sometimes.
Anyway the whole thing was lovely, and I bought some sensitive-skin facial wash that I just completely forgot to use in the shower.
Since I was in W-S, I emailed Dick Whitman ahead of time to ask if he wanted to meet at the coffee shop after. When I got no answer after several hours, I called him. After my facial, I checked my phone. No response. So I called one more time and decided to, oh, kill some time at the shoe store. Zero shoes and zero calls from DW, I called again.
"Hey, Whitman, I guess you never saw my messages, so I'm headed in to Trader Joe's. I won't be able to meet now because I've gotta get these groceries home." (We don't have a TJ's in Greensboro, and there was one a block from me in LA. I was sort of indifferent to it in LA and now I miss it all the time.)
I got 250 frozen items for $38 and was headed home when my phone rang. "Are you still here?"
.....
Don't you hate it when people don't listen to your messages and just call back instead? Why do people DO that?
"No, Whitman, I TOLD you that in my last message."
"Oh, I didn't listen to it. I just called."
.....
I like my angry new ellipses effect.
The point is, we're allegedly getting together tonight since we're both dateless. His woman is at some kind of How To Deal With Dick Whitman conference and Ned is at the beach. He texted me last night from the front porch of the beach house and we had a pretty scintillating conversation that mostly went, "I miss you," "I miss you, too." "I wish you were here." "I wish I were there, too." I did, however, fill him in on last night's Andy Griffith.
Oh, it was a good one. This man drove by and told Aunt Bee he could see aphids on her roses, and while he spread cancer-causing chemicals all over them, he charmed the housedress off Aunt Bee. Is it Aunt Bea or Bee? Anyway, Andy was suspicious at first and what I liked is he surprised Aunt Bee by coming home midday, saying, "I decided to come home for a hot lunch" and she scurried on into the kitchen and came out with a plate of food.
If anyone came to my house thinking I just had a meat loaf going for lunch at all times, they'd turn into a skeleton tout suite.
The point is, he hung around for days, that handyman did, and both got charmed by him (I have no idea where Opie was. Maybe rehab) until someone mentioned that for a handyman, that drifter sure had soft hands. This hadn't occurred to Andy, the detective, till then, so he got Sarah to call over to Mount Pilot and talked to the sheriff there, who confirmed that guy was a scammer of the worst sort.
Ned has as much fun hearing about this as you are.
Anyway, poor Aunt Bee. She should totally have gotten on Mayberry Match.com or something. Mayberry Grinder. Aunt Bee on Tinder.
Name: Bee Taylor
Turn-Ons: Pie, pearls and a hot lunch.
Turn-Offs: Clara's prize-winning pickles.
Looking For: No Barney Fifes. And no mama's boys. Looking at you, Howard.
I know too much about the Andy Griffith show.
I have to go, and I know it's a tad sick, but I'm glad to get back to work and see all the Alexes. But before I go, I do have to tell you I had a my-dad-and-the-pot-pie thing happen. I know I've told you this before, about how in the '70s, my dad was downstairs watching sports, as he did, and now that I know Ned I understand that apparently you must sign some kind of contract promising to scream the swears every five minutes when you watch sports, seeing as this is what they both do. It keeps the show on, somehow, like how in the Flintstones there's some animal turning a crank somewhere.
The point is, dad turned on the oven to preheat it. Then after that finally was ready, he put in a frozen pot pie, and you had to let it cook, like 45 minutes or something. No microwaves. He got hungrier and hungrier while he shouted his turn-the-crank swears at the screen, waiting for his pot pie. I have no idea where I was. Maybe rehab.
Finally, it was time. He ran upstairs to the kitchen, opened the oven to pull out the pie, and?
Splat.
The whole thing fell upside-down onto the kitchen floor.
Oh, I am glad I missed the dad tantrum that ensued, and have I mentioned Ned has the same charming temper?
Yesterday at Trader Joe's I saw the green chile tamales, which I had TOTALLY FORGOTTEN about. Marvin and I got them every week. Oh, they're good. I preheated the oven as I have no microwave (really? Is there really anyone who doesn't know this already?), finally put the tamale in, wait wait waited till it was ready, and?
Splat.
And instead of falling onto the floor, it fell in the crack between the bottom of the stove and the door.
Have I mentioned I have my dad's and Ned's temper?
An hour later I saw Tallulah's snout pressed into the crack of the stove like she was an anteater, chawing with her flea teeth to get each green chile.
So. Yeah. At least I had water.
Talk at you. Tune in tomorrow for another Andy Griffith recap!
Mayberrily,
June
