That was always my favorite category on Jeopardy. But for me, it’s only fun to play Jeopardy alone. Because then I can be totally smug when I know the answer. Inevitably if someone else is around, they think more quickly than me. AND remember to give the answer in the form of a question. Grr.
But that’s really not my point today. What is my point?
I don’t know. I guess that’s my point. I just came back from an interview. Intense, people.
To prepare for said interview, yesterday I decided that in the midst of my many busy errands (because, as you know, I am incredibly busy) it would be great if I happened upon a nail salon. I did, so it was fate. This experience couldn’t have been farther away though, figuratively speaking, from NY (not literally speaking, because that would mean I got my nails done in Australia. Are you still with me here?). For starters, in Brooklyn and NY at large, there is a nail salon approximately every ten feet. And if you walk into any one, the employees will always say, “Five minutes. Pick your color. Five minutes.” And even though all us Americans know that the nail salon people lie, we will pick our color and sit down and wait 45 minutes. Well not here in merry old England. Even though we live in posh Marylebone, home of Madonna, there appears to be only one nail salon in the entire area. And when I went into it, the entire salon stared at me like I was wearing a foam cheesehead and cheering on the Packers. Apparently they only do reservations. What?? That is against the mani/pedi bible. Undeterred, I made an appt for an hour later and quickly went to the gym. When I returned, I figured it served them right that I smelled like a locker room. I overheard the two other Brit customers in there talking about how exciting New York was, and one woman said, “the women in NY are so put together, always blowdried hair and painted nails.” I slithered down in my seat. They clearly weren’t taking into account my generally disheveled nature and fondness for Old Navy while a yankee. Finally, the mean and scornful women doing my nails, who seemed to disbelieve I could legitimately live in this neighborhood (what was it- the dirty North Face coat?) since they grilled me with 20 questions, finished my nails and settled up. And here is where I really missed NY. The cost of my mani and pedi, adjusted to the current exchange rate, could feed an entire village in the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. And teach literacy to a shantytown in upper Mongolia. And fund work on the cleft palates, if need be, of every future child born in Appalachia. Shameful.
I’m going back to do my eyebrows because they do threading, weeeeeee.