LA. BARBIE: (frowning. This pulls the corner of her super-masky face down, giving it the appearance of melted plastic) (chewing bubble gum with New York accent) Honey, you’ve got terrible skin. I can’t put foundation on it or you’ll cake. CLOSE YOUR MOUTH
RACHAEL: (doesn’t have time to close mouth and is therefore sprayed in mouth by huge, ominous spray-can thing busily being wielded by L.A. Barbie) Mmmmphhh!!
LA. BARBIE: (Brandishes powder and airbrushy tool, spraying in huge quantities) I told you, foundation would make you cake up. (Holds finger on nozzle for a full minute) *SPPPRRRRTTTT*
RACHAEL: (Totters back over to seat, entirely submerged in airspray-skin stuff) I feel like a cupcake.
Anyway, after that loveliness was done, said airspray thing in slightly different colour was applied to my hair, which I basically chose as my normal hair, just professionally curly instead of super-Froseph9 hillbilly curls. This held it in place like a helmet, and I was really tempted to sing Hairspray songs. After Mrs. Warkow forked up a humongous sum of dough for all that, me, Jenny and KK walked back out, slightly stiff, into the actual sunlight instead of the supremely fake world of the cool black floor, gay guys in black skinny ties with spiky faux-hawks, and chill pop-jazz music without words. Driving back was fun, I definitely had some road rage (That’s an understatement…someone wanted to park in the spot I had territorially claimed, so I screamed, “OH NO YOU DON’T, BITCH!” and reversed wildly, leaving Jenny in nervous giggles) and we went home ‘the scenic way’, which we all know is just another word for ‘the way that we go when Rachael drives the wrong way, totally convinced it’s the right way to Jenny’s house, and they’re actually heading towards Michigan’.
Part 2: Drive home with 25 miles to empty to get money for gas, food, and boutonniere (which, in fancy terms, means ‘eight-dollar-man-corsage’) and drag complaining sister to the gas station with me because they scare me. Man is that woman critical. At least I’m creatively critical; she couldn’t stop complaining about my driving. I’ll go like three miles over the speed limit and she’s contemplating calling the police. But at the gas station, she actually deserved to critique me: I paid in advance for 30 dollars worth of gas for ‘pump 6’, the pump I was parked at. Little did I know I was actually parked at pump 8 and would have to go all the way around to the other side to get gas. However, I stood at pump 8 trying to pump gas into my car for ten minutes, without success, and any hooligan could have come along and stolen the gas waiting patiently at pump 6. When I finally realized my mistake (and much bent-over swearing ensued) I got back in the car, and puzzled as to how to get into pump 6, since the side the gas nozzle was on on my car was on the opposite side at this pump. My brilliant plan was to do a three-point turn in reverse into the pump, though there were cars all around me. IT WAS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF THE MATRIX, I TELL YOU. Only it didn’t look as cool and it took like three more movies to complete. I finally squeezed into the spot and then had problems telling when to stop the gas. Helpfully, this sketchy old man in a wifebeater with a fisherman’s hat with pins in it and a white beard told me when to stop, then proceeded to chat pleasantly about my car, even though by now I’d been at the gas station for thirty-five minutes and was hell-of-a-late to pick up my boutonniere. My sister by now was entirely enraged at my crappy driving so I had to buy her a candy bar to get her to shut up. Then, I realized I hadn’t eaten and I was in a grocery store with tons of money and I could buy ANYTHING I WANTED FOR LUNCH. It was AMAZING. I ended up only buying a little can of fresh tomato basil soup and some mango Snapple, but it was the exhilaration of freedom, dammit.
((PROM PROM PROM PROM PROM))
and then it was over.
ANTICLIMATIC? NOT AT ALL.
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