It’s been a quiet kind of Saturday. The kind of Saturdays that I remember as a kid in the summer, Saturdays that don’t mean anything really. I have decompressed quite a bit in the last two days. I now have deadline zen. I think the catalyst was an emergency half-vacation day yesterday and a trip to the spa for a delightful facial, impromptu foot massage (during which my specialist Emme complimented my pale peach toe polish, still shiny and perfect from last Sunday’s pedicure), and makeover. We discussed my habit of laying on a thick slash of eyeliner across my upper lid, ala Marilyn Monroe (or The Girl In Third Row at Poison Concert in 1988), and lo, I have seen the error of my ways. And spent a bazillion dollars on more Aveda products. One would think I already owned everything Aveda makes, but apparently, one would be mistaken. But their powder foundation is lovely and does not leave a corpsey wax sheen like the one I’ve been using. I should just rename this diary ‘Weetabix’s Quest For The Perfect Foundation’ as it seems all I ever talk about.
The positive of my facial, aside from the quiet delight of having cool little soft brushes apply various concoctions and ablutions on your face and neck, is that Emme complimented me on the elasticity of my skin. Then she pressed on it a couple of times as though she were appraising a turkey in the meat department, made a satisfied sound, and said ‘Yep, 24, maybe 26.’ I wish someone would tell this to the skin under my eyes. Note to people in their teens and twenties: use a daily sunscreen. Yes. Really. You’ll thank me in a decade.
Speaking of age, thanks either to the facial (imagine Esteban giggling here, as I cannot say the word ‘facial’ without him smirking) or my utter lack of makeup today (I usually go au natural on the weekends, in effort to lose my high maintenance status. I’m hoping to hit medium-maintenance by my mid-thirties. Which is next year. It is so. Hush. Leave the old lady to her delusions and no one gets hurt) I got carded for my mojito at the new sushi place last night. Which pretty much made up for the sup-par tekka maki and the mayonnaise they put on my crab roll.
Esteban ordered a roll called ‘Rich Heat’ which was rolled in some kind of finely chopped green pepper which apparently should be classified as a deadly weapon by the FBI. It doesn’t even hit you until after you’ve chewed and swallowed it, and it isn’t like wasabi, where you feel as though the top of your head is going to blow off and then just as suddenly, it is gone and you’re wondering if you were just a wuss and then take another big bite. No. This stuff kicked your ass and then rode you like a pony. I should have known and not trusted my beloved, who took the first bite, drained his glass of seltzer, stared out the window for a minute and then offered me a bite. And then laughed and laughed and laughed while I made squeaky noises through what was left of my mouth. So evil, that man. He didn’t eat all of that one and took it with him to his Dorkathalon too, but pity the fact that Joel is on Atkins, as I’m sure he took one look at the rice and turned it down. Maybe Scotty Boom Boom was game, although I doubt it, as I don’t think Scott is a raw fish kind of guy. Although, most people wouldn’t think Esteban was a raw fish kind of guy either, for that matter. It’s the flannel. It defies psychological profiling. I’m sure that’s why 3 out of 4 serial killers prefer it over any other fabric.
The Clampett’s trailer is still parked on the side of our house. You know, just ‘until winter is over.’
It hit 70 degrees today.
Of course, I’ve been willing to go over and talk with them about it for months. I mean, I have to park my car outside because our garage is full of construction crap, and I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. In fact, during our talk, I’d be perfectly calm and maybe also mention a storage facility where you can park such things as ATV trailers for the low price of $30 a year. Which I would be willing to pay for them. It would be the neighborly thing to do, doncha know. But no. No. Esteban would handle it.
The grass under the trailer has withered to a jaundiced yellow. He’s been balking and procrastinating, because he didn’t want to do it, but given the fact that we’ll need to mow the lawn at some point in the very near future, he went over there today. He talked to Lady Clampett and she promised they would be moving it tomorrow. Then Mr. Clampett came back and made sure that it was ok that they’ll be able to put it back there next winter. Oh, you mean, in six months?
I was not home when this happened, as this would have been the perfect time to mention my landscaping plans. I’ve already picked out the holly bushes. They are very beautiful, nice glossy evergreen leaves. Not very nice to brush up against, mind you, but very pretty and appropriate to the age of the house. But no, my quick-to-please husband said it would be fine. Fine! After relaying this information to me when I returned, my landscaping plans received a veto. Apparently, I’m being unreasonable. It’s unreasonable, this desire to not have a trailer parked literally a foot off of my bedroom window. Sometimes Esteban digs in and it becomes pointless. One must then resort to using strategy. The standard pissy snit is futile. Maybe stealth landscaping under cover of darkness. I don’t know. I have some serious contemplation to do. Gah. Why do we have to live in the nice section of the country? I think I’d do much better in New York, where they wouldn’t even dream of pulling this kind of crap.
Dear Target,
In part of my quest to completely live up to my social demographic, I stopped by today because it is Saturday and I feel compelled to do so, or if I don’t, I might have to start sculpting a Target store out of dirt in my kitchen (You know what’s funny, Target? The fact that no one under the age of 30 gets that joke. But you and I do, Target, and that’s one of the reasons that I like you. Because you get me) I needed a new shower curtain rod, but I walked out with one bag and a receipt that claimed I had just spent $119.93. I think I may have blacked out, Target. Or are you piping a chloroform mist down near the Mizrahi purse display? But apparently you now have decent 400 thread count sheets and they were on sale and how could I say no to that? Especially when I just got a new 600 thread count duvet marked four million percent off elsewhere? I can’t just put that on my boring old existing sheets, can I Target? But you knew that. And you know that 400 is the lowest I’ll go, so you put it out there, knowing that my chloroformed zombie-self would instinctively grab for something it understood, something to make sense in the confusion. And even though I’m resistant to that shabby chic stuff, you knew that white things with little blue flowers are the only girl things that I like, don’t you? That black based floor lamp with the white shade and black detailing? Come now, that was hitting below the belt, don’t you think? And the tiny Venetian mirrors? Well played, Target. Well played.
Until next Saturday,
Weetabix
