The last time I went to see my beautician on Montana Ave, I had responded to her question what I was planning to do that weekend with “Oh, I’ll just sh*t”, instead of “sit and chill” (my mind does that on occasion – and I wrote a blog post about it previously). It was time to change beauticians and make an idiot of myself with another one. We’re still on Montana Ave, but across the street. The lady was very well dressed and made up. Classy. And late because apparently, the customers prior to myself had run late (there’s your German stereotype – I will definitely be early to such appointments – I can’t help it). However, Nicole was very nice, spoke in a low voice and asked few questions. I liked her almost instantly. As she applied the strip of paper underneath my eyelashes and the eyelash tint, silly me felt the need to recount the time that a beautician in Germany had to lead me to the sink to wash out my eyes (mind you – with eye lash tint on, you are advised not to open your eyes, so you blindly follow whomever takes your hand). I did bump into a few corners, but the hilarious part of my telling the story was that I felt the need to talk to Nicole using wild hand gestures since my eyes were closed. As I enthusiastically and blindly pointed to where that sink had been in Germany (not sure if I was trying to point across the ocean), I put my extended index finger directly on her breast. Bull’s eye! Even my post eye-wash apologies could not stop my face from flushing, but I was grateful that I was not able to open my eyes when it happened. I may need to change beauticians again…
I translated a book once for a member of the Spanish royal family. Well, technically, he’s not family… He had been through marriage of a relative and they’re divorced by now, I believe. I had not heard from him (let alone see any revenue from the translation) in years since I left Madrid until he contacted me again in 2013, extending an invitation that was extremely difficult for me (insert sarcasm here) to turn down: Without even attempting to buy me dinner, he said I should come visit him in his room at the Beverly Wilshire. I politely declined. Ten years ago, I don’t think I would’ve… But you know… People change. Mental pat on the shoulder :). So his next attempt in contacting me was last week. This time, he not only wanted another translation and perhaps a night out (or in… whatever), but he also wanted me to pass on how the Spanish police had treated him when he was protesting the political situation in Catalonia. To the American press. Again, I politely declined. Not only because I’d like to stay out of trouble and wish those in my circle (inner or outer) would do the same, but I don’t care much for press tattle-tale-ing. Even if I did… Anyway, he said he was waiting for me at the opera and I, again, mentioned that I was somewhere in the mountains (I had been, but was at that point in time, sitting on my bed enjoying some Netflix and chilling). It’s ok – I’ll just take myself out to dinner.
I spent Thanksgiving at home… The place where I currently live… With four friends. One guy, four girls, and I was responsible for the turkey. Huuuge responsibility (see how I like to stress myself with unnecessary tasks?!). I was very grateful for Whole Foods that day where I ordered a pre-cooked turkey and just had to throw it in the oven for another 2 plus hours. However, one of the other people (let’s call her Shannon) is a very particular individual – a pessimist with as much of a back-story as any one of us. She felt the need to kill my buzz half-way through my turkey. I was extremely happy that it had turned out well, all the sides were done, and there were only two of us drinking alcohol (two glasses of sparkling wine each). Shannon is a worrior, vaccine-opposed, and an emotional eater (among other things; and you may throw in “but she’s a good person” here). She felt the need to convince me (and the other person who shared the bubbly with me) of the detrimental effects of alcohol. As she was eating her yams. The yams that she made with brown sugar and topped off with marshmallows. I’m not a fan of confrontations, so if you let me have my drink, I’ll keep my mouth shut about your eating habits. I retired to my room. The police had already arrived at the house next door (before 2 PM) – because this is what the holidays do: People get drunk, and feel the need to argue with those who loooove to defend their point of view (perhaps those high on sugar?), and things get out of hand. Our house stayed quiet, and I spread some Christmas cheer in my room by streaming my favorite holiday movies for the next three hours.
Overall, I’d say it was a successful week. I touched someone else’s breast, turned down Spanish quasi royalty and defended my glass of sparkling wine. Life’s good.