Well, looks like I'm here for one more day. Planes don't fly (and Jillian doesn't drive) in dense fog. Now I fly out Wednesday at 6 a.m. to Detroit and then on to Seattle where I have a 30-hour layover. Yes, I said 30. I have a friend in Seattle and hopefully we can meet up and inflict some shenanigans. (No Meg, it's not MH.) If not, I'll look forward to exploring the city sans Lisa. Then it's a nonstop to Squarebanks. I'm not sure what I'll do with my extra day here...probably nothing, actually. (Lunch with dad; visit with gramma...who knows?) Unless a certain someone wants to meet me outside Montreal for a coffee. With my driving record on this trip (I also backed across the lawn down into the ditch, got stuck and had to get a passing jogger to help push me out) I'm not up for trying to pilot my little, rented matchbox around Montreal. Plus, I haven't brushed up on my French swearing. Then it's off to airport at the ungodly hour of 3 a.m. Barf.
I went to Kingston today and Danny fixed my car. What a guy. Handy, handsome and has a funny accent...not Sam, well, actually Sam has all those attributes too, but Danny's east-coast, sing-song, Cape Breton brogue trumps the down-home Kansas twang. No offense, honey. I spent a couple hours in the mall waiting for the car and got a haircut while I was there. Now, I don't want to gross any of you southerners out, but I don't brush my hair very often and by very often I mean never. It's curly and therefore brushes and/or blow dryers are my enemy. Plus, I tried to give myself dreads but it didn't really work. So anyway, the nice young hair dresser was trying to comb my hair when she commented on the knots and then, with disdain, informed me that I had a couple of mats back there. I snorted. 'Well, that's because I don't brush my hair.'
I realized how weird that must sound to a city gal like her and all of a sudden I was embarrassed.
I put my head down. 'I'm from Alaska,' I mumbled.
She nodded like she understood.
See? It's a good excuse for everything from bad hair to smelly feet to a foul mouth and I'm using it again, god dammit! Then she straightened my hair, pretty much because I told her it couldn't be done. I proceeded to walk around the Cataraqui Centre petting my shiny, straight hair obsessively. I eventually had to go into the washroom so I could pet my new hair and stare at myself at the same time. (Somewhere Barb's head is exploding.) I was so distracted by my new 'do I tripped up the steps trying to find said washroom. I'm over it now, except that I'm not and I'm petting my hair in between sentences.
All right time for bed to get ready for a bonus day in Brockvegas.