Booty Call

 

I can’t make decisions.  Honestly, I mull over the tiniest details: Should I quit my job and start a llama farm? Should I swim the English Channel? Should I take up with ‘Jake33’ from that chat room knitting?  Then there are the agonizing choices, such as which winter boots to buy.  It never ends.

 Because Canadian winters last roughly 11 ½ months, we are compelled to drink tons of anti-freeze hot chocolate, throw ourselves into traffic our work, and live in unflattering, bulky outerwear. To ease my winter blues, I was determined to get a new boy toy pair of boots. I’ve been shopping  for weeks and my living room  looks like Aisle 5 of Winners: I’ve dragged  home every gorgeous stock boy  boot that speaks to me.  It’s exhausting. I need to make the booty call.

Finding the perfect boy toy boot is challenging. It must look good, feel good, and do light housework be cheaper than a sedan. The first pair I lugged home was a black, high heel, pointy toe, calf-squeezing number a half size too small. Once my feet stopped bleeding, I rented a hunky firefighter crowbar to haul me out of them.  Too tight. Then there was the chocolate brown Italian suede ankle booty with a chunky heel that came with George Clooney a matching purse. I wanted them so bad but my husband suggested I throw myself into traffic find something cheaper.

Suddenly I knew exactly what I wanted: a divorce knee-high, black leather riding boot with 1 1/4 inch heel, 2- inch thick buckle strap accents, 1/8 inch of alpaca lining, and full- length silver zipper. It turns out sales clerks “don’t carry” such a boot.  Well, I “don’t carry” pepper spray either.  I took it upon myself to douse them until security arrived all in a huff rummage through their storage room for my boots.  Cripes.  I’d love to know where the ‘serve’ part of the service industry went…

Three weeks, a call from VISA informing me I’m homeless cut off, and two disorderly conduct snafus later, and I’m down to 26 potential pairs. Each night I come home with another shoe box and ask my husband why the hell he didn’t go to med school so I could afford all of them what he thinks, parade around in them with different outfits, and do a pole dance for the stock boys the dishes.

Well, I finally made a booty call last night.  Although the sex was fantastic, it didn’t help my indecision one iota.  I still can’t figure out which stock boy boots to keep!  I am not a quitter. I will persevere until I meet ‘Jake 33’ wearing nothing but my new boots find the perfect boots.  

Mess With My Face. I Kill Your Cat

I struggle to assert myself when I get botched haircuts, wax jobs and implants. I put my faith in the experts and I figure I shouldn’t have to tell them not to mutilate me. When they do, I’d like revenge an acknowledgement of wrongdoing. It happened again last week. My beard had become so unruly that small children would run to me in the mall, hop on my lap and give me their Christmas lists. I decided it was time for a wax job. The aesthetician stripped me of my beard, my dignity, and half my face and I’ve got the festering, open sores to prove it. The good news is children no longer sit on my lap and give me their Christmas lists.

In hindsight, I should have spoken up when the aesthetician strapped me down, grabbed a vat labelled: Highly Flammable Scalding Lava, and said, “I waxed my cat within an inch of its life yesterday. You’re next.” Again, I trusted the framed diploma on the wall that proved she was a certified expert. Had I looked a little more closely I would have realized it was actually the terms and conditions of her probation. Before I could run, she plunged my entire head in the lava cauldron and barked, “Say Uncle!!” When I asked, “Should it bleed hurt this much?” she told me to ‘man the hell up and own that beard’. Then she ripped three layers deep to remove the freckles, blood vessels and stubborn hair follicles from my face. Forever.

When it was over, I kicked her hard in the shins thanked God I was alive. She handed me a mirror to show me where I’d need skin grafting; the bloody red blotches sure made me miss my beard. As usual, I didn’t say what I really thought. Instead, I asked, “Do you know of a good plastic surgeon?” And, as usual, there was no apology. To be fair, she did let me live apply a soothing salve to cover the fact that she skipped Lesson #1: Wax Temperature it.

Maybe I expect too much. I mean, it can’t be easy to monitor wax temperature and a probation officer all at once. Plus, at no point did I explicitly say: “Please don’t rip off my chin flesh because I need it for my pensive look.” As I got up to leave, to my surprise, she did acknowledge the unavoidable lawsuit blunder. She said: “Looks like the wax must’ve been too hot or your skin’s super sensitive. Suck it. That’ll be $28.”

At the cash, I said, “See you in court, bitch.” “Thanks! You did a great job. Can’t wait to see how it looks when it stops oozing!” Then I whipped out my wallet and did what I always do when I look like a leper after a spa service: I tipped like Paris Hilton. I gave the ex-con an extra twenty, some movie vouchers and my life insurance policy. Lightheaded from the blood loss, I inched towards the door. I grabbed the handle to steady myself, looked back and said, “Hope you find your cat. Trust me. You won’t.”