This will not be my most ladylike post. Oh, stop laughing. Fine, none of them have been ladylike but this one will be the least ladylike.
I’ve been busier than a one armed monkey with three dicks this week. The kids and I leave for Texas the day after tomorrow for our annual summer visit and haven’t packed one fucking thing. E’s Birthday was this week, we had a date night last night, I took the kids to lunch with E today because by the time we get back from Texas, the kids will be in school and won’t be able to go to lunch with us. Gracie wanted to go decorate her locker at her school today. So, obviously, a lot of important stuff on top of an already incredibly busy week.
I went to get my hair cut yesterday by the only person alive who is allowed to touch my hair and surfuckingprise! He no longer works at that hair salon and he didn’t have the courtesy to call a bitch up and let her magenta haired ass know. Wait. My hair on my head is magenta. Not my ass hair. Wait. I have no hair on my ass because I…. never mind, fuck it. So now on top of everything, I have to hunt down my gay hairdresser so he can cut my hair before I leave for Texas. You’d think it’d be easy to locate a flamboyantly gay man covered in tattoos, sporting much better cat eyeliner than I could ever do and wearing glittery flats in the deep South but guess what? It’s pretty damned hard.
Luckily, Landon got his business card a few months ago and was gracious enough to give it to me yesterday. I cannot make this shit up: My hair guy’s business card has a unicorn on it. If I’m lying, I’m dying. It has a rainbow and unicorn and all kinds of gay shit on it, just in case you weren’t clear about which way he swings.
So I text him this morning. Here’s how that went down. I would screenshot it but it takes too much work to block the pertinent shit out and seriously, at this point, my head will explode.
Me: Hey, it’s Stephanie with the magenta hair. Where are you?! Went in yesterday for a cut and they told me you weren’t there anymore. I didn’t let them TOUCH my hair. But I do need a cut. Let me know where you’re at. 🙂
Unicorn Boy: I’m at XYZ Salon in Bumfuck Bama. 🙂 Those girls are crazy! ♥♥♥ I’M SO FANCY! ♥♥♥
Again, I cannot make this shit up. Out of nowhere, he texts “I’M SO FANCY!” Like I didn’t know.
This is my life.
So, I’m making pee pee and have like three seconds to myself and decide to check in on Facebook. My supposed friend Gary (I ain’t even going to give his ass a fake name because he deserves the hate mail and brown paper bags of flaming shit coming his way once my loyal and devoted readers get their revenge for me and I know you will) has this as his profile picture:
My friends Robin and Kari (real names but seriously, I have like zero time to even make up fake names right now) and I were involved in a “Selfie War” last fall. Some pretty funny selfies were posted, which I may post at another time but not right now. I sent the above picture to only them the next day, along with my frenemy Gary because somehow he was involved. In this picture, I’m dying my hair magenta, I have some sort of seaweed/clay mask on my face and because I was out of shower caps, I improvised with a Kohl’s bag. I didn’t use a Wal Mart bag because I’m classy like that. The choice here that brings me the most shame, however, is the Trekkie tee. I hang my head on that one.
After I post on Facebook that Gary will “RUE THE FUCKING DAY!”, he then, I guess, attempts to make amends by posting this horrifically photoshopped image he had made of me last fall.
When Gary originally publicly terrorized me with this monstrosity last year, some of his friends (not mine because mine graduated high school, minimum) thought the above was a real picture of me. Never mind the awful photoshopping. On top of that, that isn’t even a fanny pack, it’s more like a cooter pack, neither of which I would ever wear. Also, I would never wear tacky red nail polish like that and I do not wear gold jewelry. My arms actually touch my sides and I don’t have neck rolls which can store enough food crumbs for three days in a life or death emergency. I also have nipples where they’re supposed to be. You can’t miss them.
There’s my dirty laundry. I do not negotiate with terrorists, Gary!
Now y’all excuse me while I drive to Bumfuck Bama to see my FANCY, gay (and fabulous) hair dresser.