24 May, 2010

Boys drool

I waited 45 minutes for my pedicure so the 9 year old boy could finish getting his fingers and toes filed and fabulous.  My feet were turning into prunes as they soaked in the foot bath.  The massage chair was kneading a bit too hard, the fumes were turning toxic and subtitles weren't showing on Fox News.  Plus, the sweet smell of jasmine rice wafting from the back made my stomach growl even more.  But I was patient and forgiving; surely I'd leave with the prettiest toes in town.  Wrong.  Nearly two hours later I tiptoed out with less money in my pocket, a shoddy looking paint job and and a manicure that looked homemade.  I blame it on that boy... and I'm only a tad bit envious he got the paraffin wax treatment and I didn't...

You know it must be bad when I begin my day with this lovely little text:

"I don't care what his excuse is.  Jerk.  Face."

Well put...  Because anyone who avoids a (slightly important) conversation for 3 days and only calls at the 11th hour is well, a Jerk.  Face.

Thank you KJ. :)

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