Whilst wandering after Dim Sum down Bush this afternoon, a birdie dropped its load onto my left collarbone. Luckily, fast-acting Dr. Bruce was able to leap into Starbucks to get a napkin etc, and I managed to make myself all nice again at Mystery Irish Pub a block or so away.
We chortled about how the whole bird-shitting-on-you thing is supposed to bring you luck. Whatever
. After a cheeky afternoon beer I said goodbye to the fair Doctor to be in time for my next appointamente.
You may or may not recall a few posts ago I talked about not being desperately girly. This has all changed as of today. I am now a Spa Slapper, after enjoying my very first mani pedi with the girli girls.
How lovely it was to have not one beauty professional but two clip and file, shape and massage, rub my extremeties with various oils and an unguent vaguely resembling pesto, and pop my mitts in slightly retarded, yet warm and toasty heat glove things
. I was in slight disbelief for most of the procedure that these women were actually doing this, but this was mostly on the backburner to a pleasantly mild delirium.
Naturally, I chose fire-engine red for my toenails. I left feeling extremely relaxed and unbelievably glamorous. Little did I know that all the while I still had a teeny bit of bird shit stuck in my hair. Just a teeny bit.
Found it when I was flossing.