Blake's been out of town for work a lot lately, so I've had to find ways to keep myself entertained.
I was pretty exhausted after work yesterday, and after making it through the 60-person sit-down dinner I planned this past week, I figured I deserved a little pampering. So I treated myself to a pedicure at my favorite place. I picked out the perfect wine-red color (the color this fall, I've been told) and settled down in the massage chair to oogle my Crate & Barrel holiday catalogue and enjoy the foot massage.
My nail technician (is that what they're called?) didn't speak good English, but she was very emphatic on trying to up-sell me on various beautifying procedures. In fact, her method of up-selling made me feel rather fugly:
Pointing to my face: "You want me to clean up your eyebrows?"
What? Are they really that bad? Thanks, but no thanks, I'm not letting you anywhere near my brows.
Reaching for my nail-bitten hands and clucking in disapproval: "You need manicure." Not said as a question, but as a fact.
Great. My hands are grotesque, too. What next? Is she going to suggest that she wax my upper lip?
Pumice-stoning my rough feet: "How many times you get pedicure?"
"Um, I dunno, two times a year I guess?"
Clucking again with disapproval and looking around to see if anyone else had heard my answer: "ONLY TWO TIMES?!" Smug laughing. Shaking her head. "You only come two times?"
Ok lady, so I don't want to spend $20.00 a month getting my toes shined. Sue me. I'm cheap.
At this point she then calls all her colleagues over to tell them (in what I think was Thai) all about how I only get pedicures twice a year. They all proceeded to shake their heads in disapproval and give me looks of pity.
So now I'm ugly and unkempt. Perfect.
I'd had about all I could take of Hannah and her high-pitched insults, so I dove back into the lovely retail world of red waffle makers and holiday-shaped marshmallows. Besides, what does she know anyway?