Come on! We're going to be late!
My friend Catherine takes forever to get ready. For some reason, her hard-core feminist habits of not wearing makeup, high heels or shaving her legs, for that matter, had to end tonight. I watched her all evening, waxing, exfoliating, hearing her scream, swear with all the québécois swear words you can possibly imagine, pulling on these little wax bands. "How do women do that? It's a nightmare!!!" "It is, I said, that's why I let my beautician take care of it!" I was already ready to go; I, for one wanted to go out. Tonight, not tomorrow. It was Saturday, I was feeling very good, ready to have a good time and had plenty of money in my pockets to do so. Plus, I was starving. I needed food. I was standing in the doorway, my purse in my hand and my car keys in the other, looking at her rumaging all over the place. I was getting impatient.
-Ok, Ok...I'm ready now....oh non...wait...
And she dashes upstairs to get God-knows-what.
-I'll wait for you in the car!!!
Ten minutes later, as I was listening to an 80's music CD a co-worker had burned for me in the car, she comes out the door, wearing different clothes then 10 minutes earlier. She gets in the car, finally. I give her the exasperated friend look.
-I'm sorry! But you know what Bridges? You know what? You do that to me all the time!
(not true)
-You look great now! Beautiful. Gorgeous. Every man will want a piece of you. Let's go!!
-You're not that shabby yourself!
(Shabby? Ok, perhaps she didn't use the word "shabby". Maybe she said "pas pire", as in "Toi aussi, t'es pas pire pentoute!")
And we head out to Crescent street, where we're hoping to find food, good looking men, music, and dancing. Not necessarily in that particular order.
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