June 20, 2007
One of the advantages in writing full time, is that, when there is money available, I can take time out of the middle my day to go to the manicurist. I had a business dinner to go to last night, and figured it might be nice if I made an effort to look like I left the house once in a while. Definitely time for a shower, a dress and a mani/pedi.
I frequent one of the local Asian nail places, since they are cheaper and more colorful than a day spa. They have spa pedicure chairs, complete with whirlpool and back massage, set up right by the TV set.
I am not a big day-time TV watcher, since I figure, even if I’m home during the day, I’m supposed to be working. Oprah does not get the book written. Neither do soap operas. But I am more than willing to indulge, if trapped for a half an hour in the pedicure chair.
Actually, I’ll indulge for longer, if you let me. I’ve found, if you show up as a walk-in when they are busy doing a set of acrylic nails, they’ll stick you in the pedi-chair until the other clients are done. This means you’re forced to kill up to an hour in a foot bath, getting a mechanical back rub, while watching TV.
I announced this as the deal-of-the-century at a ‘girls only’ party, around here, where we were discussing local spas and treatments.
The woman next to me, gave me a look that made me think I’d just told everyone I trimmed my toenails with my teeth.
Geez. It’s not like I’m exploiting the working class. I tip well. Swear to God. And don’t mind at all if there are no rose petals floating in the wash water, or that, for all I know, the technicians are talking in Vietnamese about cheap bitches with ugly bunions. I figure it’s all part of doing business.
I was watching soaps. As the World Turns, I think. And there was a marriage of convenience.
Cool, thinks I. I am writing one of those. Glad to know that plot still exists. And wondering why soaps can get away, hands down, with stuff that has a romance writer sweating into her boots, afraid that it may be too cliched to be publishable.
But then, a woman sits down in the chair next to me, and wants to know, do I mind if she switches channels, because General Hospital is on.
Not at all. Switch away.
She is very embarrassed, and apologetic, and doesn’t want to deprive me of my show. But she can’t help it, she’s hooked on GH.
I assure her again: Really. No problem. Go ahead. And I am thinking, ‘I write Harlequin Romances, cupcake. I’ve got no grounds to feel superior. We are both up to our ears in female escape fantasies. Just not the same one. Different strokes. Knock yourself out.’
So, she switches to GH, and I am eating it with a spoon.
It seems, evildoers have just snatched an infant from the park. Right out of the stroller. The mother’s back was turned.
The father, named Lucky, suspects his wife may have offed the kid. Since she was experiencing symptoms of postpartum depression. She’d look at the kid and burst into tears.
She is crying because Lucky is not the father. The biological father is in lock-up at the local jail. (And what if someone finds out? Although it seems half the town knows already).
And now, I am wondering why the presumed father is named Lucky. Because “You poor deluded Bastard” is too hard to remember?
Cut to some other woman, a sister-in-law, or something, who is sympathizing. And remembering when both of her kids were snatched.
And her friend is assuring her that, it’ll be fine, you got both of them back, maybe this will work out, too… (djuhthink?)
By this point, I am slack jawed. What exactly is the crime rate, in the fictional town of Port Charles? And what do the Baby Books for these kids look like?
Date of Birth
Date of Abduction
copy of Ransom note
You’d think, after a while, the women in that town would wise up and put their houses on the market, right after flunking the EPT. Maybe move over to a CBS show. I didn’t see any kids over there.
Of course, the groom-of-convenience had just kidnapped the bride. But I don’t think that counts.