Today was one of Those Days. Ouro Branco was every inch the terrible twoer. Little Prince and Jellybean were both whiny and plain mean. I must have picked up the entire house four times but I currently can't see the floor in either the den or our bedroom. I had to go to the police station to rat out an abusive father and it turns out he's been turned in two times already and they're not doing a DANG THING. Picking up LP and his friend from preschool was a fiasco - screaming children running around the parking lot for fun and to see how fast my blood pressure can rise. (Psssst. Car rides with four children under four are never fun. It's supposed to be My Man's job to do the preschool run but WE STILL DON'T HAVE THE CAR BACK, REMEMBER?!) Plus also the washing-machine-fixit-guy didn't show up and my laundry pile is reaching Everest proportions.
And I'm just crabby today.
So when we went to pick up My Man I was a leetle beet on edge. Just a bit. I started enumerating my many wrongs and getting closer to tears every minute. We dropped of LP's friend and we were halfway to our house when My Man cut me off.
"We're running away."
Just like that, people, he turned the car around and headed toward the mall in Jundiai, where he gave me explicit instructions.
"You are getting your hair cut at that fancy spa place. Get your nails and feet done. I want you to be like this: (Throws his head and arms back and does his impression of a sponge.) And see if they have cucumbers for your eyes."
There are no words in English or Portuguese to describe my love for that man.
So now let me tell you about the fancy spa place. I totally walk in there in my floppy sandals with the soles coming apart, dirty jeans and a stained T-shirt. I'm surrounded by the Beverly Hills 90210 high school class reunion looking askance at me. But I SO DO NOT CARE.
First they wash. But "wash" is not the appropriate word here. They "out-of-body-experience" you. For twenty minutes I had my head scrubbed and massaged. Eyes shut, I couldn't even remember my name. I get goose bumps just thinking about it. Then I'm off to the swivel chair and I get talked to about my face shape and scalp condition and daily routine and such. The guy(totally adorable in a pre-scary Michael Jackson kind of way, and knows more about the American economy and presidential elections than I do) snips and styles for the next hour, complete with smoothing on some fantastic-smelling creamy stuff that makes me look H-O-T. And they did that round-brush thingy with my hair. I can never do that round-brush thingy.
So when I'm declared finished I glide through the mall ready to flash my wedding ring at the many young men who were no doubt going to ask for my number. I could practically HEAR the whispered chorus of "Who's That Lady?"
And there, at the appropriate meeting spot, was My Man - with a Twix McFlurry in his hand.
Sorry, girls, he's taken. Now if you'll excuse me, my night's not over.