There has been a distinct lack of blogworthy material in my life this week.
On the hair front, I have had 4 people ask me for my Hair stylists number since I last went to Ernesto's. Can I just say that this is a triumph! A TRIUMPH.
If Hair Stylists, Doctors, Dentists, Mechanics, Car Insurance brokers and my Parents gave commission for the number of clients/people that I sent on to them, they would be paying ME to visit them. I include my parents because they are fabulous and really, if you haven't met them, you need to.
They go to the furthest corners of the globe, further than Siberia, further than the jungles of the Phillipines. They trot all over the world Mothering and Fathering everyone they meet and having a lot of fun doing it. They stand on the far borders of Russia, looking longly over the river towards China and hope that they can travel there. They've slept on broken beds and in single beds, in little mud huts in Rwanda whilst large wild cats broke into their living area and ate the remains of dinner.
They have brought home the strangest collection of gifts that I have ever seen, faithfully packing each, usually heavy and awkward item into their suitcases and lugging them home. I was particularly delighted to see the arrival of the large ceramic Boar. It was about 2 and a half feet long, over a foot high and a delightful shade of mustard brown. It had some sort of teapot lid on the top of it, we never quite figured it out.
They are adventurous and feisty, generous and humble. And they cook fabulous, fabulous food. Roll on Christmas!
(If you could imagine a picture of them at this point that would be helpful. I would have included a picture of their fabulous selves but unfortunately I experienced some technical difficulties).
Although I like to share the things I love, I do not share my car. Or my macbaby.
However, I would like to point out that I have never recommended my Oral Surgeon to anyone. Nor to my waxing lady, who is my waxing lady no more for several reasons. One being due to a certain harshness of style and two, because a conversation on the differences between the traditional Roman Catholic church and TACF whilst having one's legs waxed, is not my idea of a relaxing time and three, I have discovered Veet. Which is extremely effective, easy to use, much cheaper and doesn't involve harsh ministrations by Polish ladies.
My oral surgeon is fodder for a whole other blog entry. Which if you are planning on having your wisdom teeth out in the next five years, I don't recommend that you read.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Monday, October 09, 2006
Attack of the 76 Birds
What a wonderful day it was yesterday. The sun was shining.The sky was blue. The air was warm. It was a day that cried out for a car wash.
I heard that cry. I heard that cry, dear readers and I responded (Seeing as I actually CANNOT remember the last time I washed my car).
Filled with zeal, I changed out of my impractical high heels and drove to the coin operated car wash. This type of car wash involves you leaping out and running around in a frenzy whilst plying your vehicle with high pressure jets and foam emitting scrub brushes,
I always feel a little out of place at this car wash. Everyone else seems to be either a) male, b) driving an Acura, c) wearing a lot of jewellery or d) supporting the alloy rim and car bling business. I stick out a little.
Anyways, back to the story. After a tasty Thanksgiving dinner hosted by the Harrises, where we were able to skype with Adele and get a live glimpse of Honour. Tucked cosily up in a MOST fashionable sling, she managed a gracious wave (She may possibly have been scratching her nose in her sleep but I preferred to take it as a gracious acknowledgement). Ah yes, after the dinner I headed back out to my car. My freshly washed, pristine, gleaming car. My PREVIOUSLY freshly washed, pristine and gleaming car.
My first thought was that leaves had fallen on it. A lot of leaves. A lot of small leaves. But oh no, they were not leaves.
An ENTIRE flock of birds must have sat in that tree. A HERD. A huge frenzied fully fed flock of BIRDS. And they ALL pooped on my car. All of them. Every single feathery one of them. Now, in case you are wondering whether or not I am prone to exaggeration and maybe there were just 5 birds sitting in that tree, I counted them.
Yes, that's right, I counted them. This morning, prior to going to the car wash for the second time in two days, I counted the number of bird poops on my car. There were SEVENTY SIX! I kid you not! Seventy six.
Was there an Alfred Hitchcock movie going on that I didn't know about? Seventy six, people, seventy six. I didn't think the tree was big enough to hold seventy six birds. Maybe they came in relays? Ten birds an hour. Or maybe they were the same 10 birds who came back, time after time. What are the chances?
I should have taken a photo and sent it in to the Guinness Book of Records. 'Most number of Bird Poops recorded in a 2 meter squared area in 6 hours.'
My car is probably traumatized. It may well even now be cowering out there on the parking lot, twitching every time a bird flies over it, the poor thing. It may take weeks to recover. I may even need to pray for it. I would hate it to be scared of birds. However, perhaps it thinks it's worth it to get washed twice in a weekend.
It'd better be clean when I go out there in the morning...
I heard that cry. I heard that cry, dear readers and I responded (Seeing as I actually CANNOT remember the last time I washed my car).
Filled with zeal, I changed out of my impractical high heels and drove to the coin operated car wash. This type of car wash involves you leaping out and running around in a frenzy whilst plying your vehicle with high pressure jets and foam emitting scrub brushes,
I always feel a little out of place at this car wash. Everyone else seems to be either a) male, b) driving an Acura, c) wearing a lot of jewellery or d) supporting the alloy rim and car bling business. I stick out a little.
Anyways, back to the story. After a tasty Thanksgiving dinner hosted by the Harrises, where we were able to skype with Adele and get a live glimpse of Honour. Tucked cosily up in a MOST fashionable sling, she managed a gracious wave (She may possibly have been scratching her nose in her sleep but I preferred to take it as a gracious acknowledgement). Ah yes, after the dinner I headed back out to my car. My freshly washed, pristine, gleaming car. My PREVIOUSLY freshly washed, pristine and gleaming car.
My first thought was that leaves had fallen on it. A lot of leaves. A lot of small leaves. But oh no, they were not leaves.
An ENTIRE flock of birds must have sat in that tree. A HERD. A huge frenzied fully fed flock of BIRDS. And they ALL pooped on my car. All of them. Every single feathery one of them. Now, in case you are wondering whether or not I am prone to exaggeration and maybe there were just 5 birds sitting in that tree, I counted them.
Yes, that's right, I counted them. This morning, prior to going to the car wash for the second time in two days, I counted the number of bird poops on my car. There were SEVENTY SIX! I kid you not! Seventy six.
Was there an Alfred Hitchcock movie going on that I didn't know about? Seventy six, people, seventy six. I didn't think the tree was big enough to hold seventy six birds. Maybe they came in relays? Ten birds an hour. Or maybe they were the same 10 birds who came back, time after time. What are the chances?
I should have taken a photo and sent it in to the Guinness Book of Records. 'Most number of Bird Poops recorded in a 2 meter squared area in 6 hours.'
My car is probably traumatized. It may well even now be cowering out there on the parking lot, twitching every time a bird flies over it, the poor thing. It may take weeks to recover. I may even need to pray for it. I would hate it to be scared of birds. However, perhaps it thinks it's worth it to get washed twice in a weekend.
It'd better be clean when I go out there in the morning...
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Sheer Genius
He is a genius.
He is fabulous. He is talented. He is funny. He flirts semioutrageously. He knows what's inside my head and makes it happen. He is talented. (Did I mention that?) He is genius. And he is MY hairstylist people.
Can I tell you how happy this makes me? Like, really, really happy!
I love every hair cut he gives me. EVERY SINGLE ONE. I tell you no lie.
Gone are the days of leaving the salon after reassuring the hairdresser that you do like it, whilst secretly being filled with angst that they cut it too short, that they styled it wrong, that you are now doomed to wear a hat for the next few weeks. Remember those times when you would carefully spell out to the stylist what you wanted, repeating important words such as "NO MORE THAN AN INCH OFF" or "NO LAYERS" whilst they smiled, nodded even and then blithely went on their merry way chopping and layering as though their life depended on it. Remember? Remember? Perhaps it is only me who has had such experiences?
Well people, those days are in the past. Barely a troubling memory.
Today was yet another happy, happy hairstyling event for me. The glistening early morning start. (OK, so it's worth it!) The fervid cheek kissing. The cappucinos. The sublime shampooing (By a Urugyuan man named Alfredo. Alfredo? I was going to say that he was saucy (heh heh). But not really. He was elated to find out that I was English and kept interjecting the head massage with "I love the Eenglesh" or "Eengland is wonderful" . Apparently we are relaxed, enjoy smoking and play alot of Electronic music. Most enlightening.) However back to the happy, happy hair styling experience. The highlighting. The cappucinos. The cutting. The pep talks.
According to Ernesto, I need a serious boyfriend. However he reassured me that I have a good few years yet (apparently to find one). This was very comforting.
Anyway, I love my hair.
He is fabulous. He is talented. He is funny. He flirts semioutrageously. He knows what's inside my head and makes it happen. He is talented. (Did I mention that?) He is genius. And he is MY hairstylist people.
Can I tell you how happy this makes me? Like, really, really happy!
I love every hair cut he gives me. EVERY SINGLE ONE. I tell you no lie.
Gone are the days of leaving the salon after reassuring the hairdresser that you do like it, whilst secretly being filled with angst that they cut it too short, that they styled it wrong, that you are now doomed to wear a hat for the next few weeks. Remember those times when you would carefully spell out to the stylist what you wanted, repeating important words such as "NO MORE THAN AN INCH OFF" or "NO LAYERS" whilst they smiled, nodded even and then blithely went on their merry way chopping and layering as though their life depended on it. Remember? Remember? Perhaps it is only me who has had such experiences?
Well people, those days are in the past. Barely a troubling memory.
Today was yet another happy, happy hairstyling event for me. The glistening early morning start. (OK, so it's worth it!) The fervid cheek kissing. The cappucinos. The sublime shampooing (By a Urugyuan man named Alfredo. Alfredo? I was going to say that he was saucy (heh heh). But not really. He was elated to find out that I was English and kept interjecting the head massage with "I love the Eenglesh" or "Eengland is wonderful" . Apparently we are relaxed, enjoy smoking and play alot of Electronic music. Most enlightening.) However back to the happy, happy hair styling experience. The highlighting. The cappucinos. The cutting. The pep talks.
According to Ernesto, I need a serious boyfriend. However he reassured me that I have a good few years yet (apparently to find one). This was very comforting.
Anyway, I love my hair.
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