Town

Since we're fun party animals, yesterday we went to town to hit the library book sale, Wal-Mart, the mall and the LoneStar for steaks, sans dancing. And also to pick up my truck from where I'd left it the night before when I'd had a seizure at work and Lori had to pick me up and take me home.

The library book sale is one of the mainstays of our year. They sell off roomfuls and roomfuls of books for $1 each for hardcover and $o.50 for paperbacks. Right off the bat, I found about 15 that I wanted. I asked the library ladies, who were stylishly arrayed in powder blue vests that matched their powder blue hair rinses, if there was some place I could stash them while I kept shopping. One of them gave me a box and a "sold" sign to set on my box. Okay...not my box, although that's sold too. But there's no reason the library ladies need to know that.

So I went back to my shopping, and Lori and I gathered up another dozen or so books that we wanted, then went to check out.

My box was gone.

AAAAAHHHH!!!! I said, in my most distraught voice, "What happened to my books?" And the library ladies looked at each other and said, "Oh. We probably gave them to that man. We thought they were his."

"That man" had already stolen my box of books and headed home. Bastard. Book-stealing bastard. I stood there, looking forlorn, and babbling about how excited I was to have found the new John Irving for $1, and how much I'd been looking forward to my new books. The library ladies kept exchanging glances, probably some kind of signal for "She's crazy. Call the police."

Finally, one of them remembered that the book-stealing bastard had paid with a check, and maybe his phone number was on the check. It was. One of them called, and Mrs. Book-Stealing Bastard apparently hemmed and hawed for a few moments on the phone, then agreed to send Mr. BSB back with MY stolen box of books.

The Library Lady closest to me, who was about 300 years old and desperately trying to stave off my near-meltdown, said to me, "If this were a romance novel, that man would bring back your books and you'd laugh about this with him and discover that he was your One True Love."

I shot the bitch where she stood.

No. Not really. Really I said, "That's my One True Love over there.", pointing at Lori. "I just want my books back."

Eventually he came back, with a somewhat depleted box of books. I pawed through them for a minute; there were a few less than I'd put in there, but the John Irving was there and a bunch of mysteries, so I thought it was probably good enough. We paid and left, another book sale crisis averted.

Next we went to the mall for haircuts. Mine is easy: #4 clippers all the way around and a little more than that on the top. I always ask the girl du jour if she's ever cut Asian hair, and she always looks at me warily and says, "yes?"

I'm not Asian, but for some reason, my hair is. It's black, thick, and absolutely, completely straight. It grows out of my skull exactly perpendicularly to the point of attachment, like a KooshBall. So there's always a danger that in the hands of a bad haircutter I'll either LOOK like a KooshBall, or if they cut it too short, like those oranges-studded-with-cloves that little children make in school for their moms every Fall. Either way, I will look like neither a Hot Butch Lesbian nor a Laboratory Professional.

So she did a good job on my hair and laughed at my jokes and I was pleased. But three feet away, unbeknownst to me, Lori was NOT pleased. Her hair girl was busy anxiously hacking the shit out of her hair, which moments before had been girl hair. Now it was gender-ambiguous hair, and in another 30 seconds it was going to become Marine Gunnery Sergeant hair.

Lori finally said, "Stop cutting!" And tried to direct her more specifically towards her hair goals.

Kid wasn't having any of it. She stood with the scissors in her hands and looked like she was headed for a panic attack, until Lori said, "That's good enough. I'll stick with this." and got out of the chair.

Eventually, we bought some undies, ate some meat, and headed home. Without the truck. See why we never go to town? We're not good at it.