Saturday was Salon Day at my house, a day dedicated to women who converge on the house, treats and Bloody Mary fixin’s in hand, ready to pay for professionally rendered services at prices that don’t make you weep.
And don’t let your imagination run too wild there – we’re talking facials and pedicures.
I mean, I don't know what you were thinking when I said "professionally rendered services", but it ain’t that kind of party!
Oh. You weren't thinking that? Must be me...
As a quick aside, have I mentioned yet how fabulous my toes look?
Well, they do.
And no, I can’t paint them myself. That would make sense, sure; but where’s the fun in that, and who the hell would jump up and get me another Bloody?
Because, you see, it’s not really about the actual services, is it? It’s more about the laughs, about the camaraderie, about my face being lovingly massaged with expensive-smelling oils while just 10 feet away, the rest of the crew is drinking and rooting through the Christmas cookies. It’s about comparing lives in ridiculous and amusing ways. It’s about the victory dance done by the eater of the last of the coveted Layered Taco Dip. It’s about the threat – only partially in jest – to lick the platter of the remnants of said Layered Taco Dip.
And now, I truly need a nap but am on my way out the door for an evening of sushi with a person who makes me laugh until I fall off furniture. It’s true. Like one of those Fainting Goats, a hearty laugh causes me to go limp and yet somehow spastic, something that should prove to be humorous in itself whilst chopsticking a Dynamite Roll.
And have I told you yet how fabulous my toes are looking?
'Cause they do.