It is Sunday evening, and I am on my computer while Ned is at his, doing his taxes. He just said, "Son of a bitch," and I feel like Ned is going to be a bit of a swearwolf tonight. I am having strawberries and cutting cheese, which always makes me snicker like a 7th grader, but really it's a sharp white cheddar.
So, busy weekend and I will plunge right into it. That's what SHE said.
Saturday morning I had to bound out of bed like a fireman or someone who actually ISN'T clinically depressed, and scream on over to the hair salon. I got roots and highlights and a blowout, which means I was at the salon for three and a half fucking hours. They weren't just hours, they were fucking hours. Plus, my hairdresser was in a hurry at the end, and he didn't smooth me out as much as I needed, so I look a little like Garth of Wayne and Garth. Party on. Then I got a manicure, which I had tried to do Friday night, but I was waiting on this IDIOT girl who wanted a design on one finger. You'd have thought her one finger was going into the annals of history, so to speak. That this finger was being photographed to be displayed in Times Square. You'd have thought her one designed finger was going to serve as the muse for artists and poets and songwriters everywhere, so inspired would they be by her ONE FUCKING FLOWER on her ONE FUCKING FINGER that I was ready to chop off and stick down her stupid annoying throat.
"No, no, not that color. Can you take it off and try again?"
"I'm getting hungry," her beleaguered friend said, and how this yahoo has one single friend is beyond me. "Try the blue paint," she told the manicure guy, who was clearly growing uncomfortable with her endless retries of this stupid design, knowing I was SITTING THERE waiting my turn.
Forty minutes I waited for this dipstick to be happy with her ONE FUCKING FINGER before I gave up and left. You have no idea how hard it was for me to not say, "You, dear, are a pain in EVERYONE'S ASS" as I snapped off her unhappy finger like a chicken bone.
So Saturday. Got a manicure Saturday.
This means it was after 1 p.m. by the time I got home. "The wedding starts at 4:30, so let's leave at 3:30," I told Ned when I arrived with my new Princesses Rule nail color, and they really do. I mean, unless there's a king or a queen around, then they don't rule at all. But often, princesses rule.
"You're KIDDING," said Ned, and let me tell you something. Ned? Cannot imagine arriving for anything on time, or in a timely manner, or punctually. He was early for our first date, and I should have thanked all that was holy in the sky, because I never saw that behavior again. The thought of giving yourself extra time to get somewhere is not a concept Ned embraces. Sometimes his mother tells him things begin earlier than they do, so he's only 15 minutes late and not an hour late.
"Yes," I said. "It takes 40 minutes to get there, so let's give ourselves time."
"I'll just go on a bike ride, then," he said, and on my insides I was all MOTHER OF GOD.
(Ned just god dammited. I wonder how the tax-paying is going?)
Because if Ned gets on that bike, he'll be on it for an hour, and then he'll sit listlessly in the back yard with water and look all flushed, and then he'll stretch after, and it was already 1:30 when he said this and we had to be in the car IN TWO HOURS.
And indeed, all of that happened, and when Ned got in the shower at 3:17, I was beside myself. Beside. My own self.
Anyway. Once Ned gets out of the shower, he doesn't bound out of the room like a fireman or someone who isn't clinically depressed. Oh, he flosses, he trims his beard, he admires himself in the mirror and says, Al Pacino. I don't know WHAT all he does, but I DO know that I nervously announced that it was 3:27 when he finally emerged from the bathroom.
"What am I gonna wear?" Ned said, and this is when my insides began screaming like an injured wolverine. He tried on one thing and hated it, and I selected ties for him and silently wished I could turn back tiiioome, like I was Cher. As a technique to not be late for anything, a technique that has worked on Ned precisely NOT ONCE EVER, his clock is set 417 minutes early, so I could not tell what time it really was, but I clammily knew it was past when I wanted to leave. I knew if I nagged, he'd get testy, but I'm telling you my teeth were sweaty at this point, so tense was I.
Ned finally got his clothes on and headed to the mirror. "He is NOT headed to the MIRROR," I thought, panic having welled up over my brain and out my nostrils, like a dragon. Ned took the towel and dried his hair vigorously. "Ugh," he said, and dried his hair again. Then he examined his nails.
"Can we please go?" I asked, purse in hand.
"Okay, hang on," he said, as if I were some sort of impossible shrew, what with the wanting to actually see the bride go down the aisle and all. God. Demanding.
Finally, I lured him down the stairs, and had a steak on a big stick or tassels on my hoots gotten him down there faster, I'd have worked it. We got all the way to the kitchen when..
I have no idea what he had to do, because at this point here was my mood:
Finally, FINALLY!!!, we headed to the car. "What time is it?" asked Ned, as if I weren't acutely aware of each passing moment that lessened our chances of even seeing the cake before it was digested at passed, much less the bride.
"It's 10 minutes to 4:00," I said nervously. Winston-Salem is 35 miles away. The wedding started at 4:30.
"Geez, we have plenty of time," said Ned, as we headed to the highway.
Where two lanes were shut down.
Tune in tomorrow for June's Weekend, part two of 3934928239 parts.