So we'd gone to visit A and A for the weekend, and were to eat dinner with Ema (only one m) and our friend Christophe. Anne and I ran different errands during the afternoon, and got back from our last one at about 7 o'clock. We walked into the kitchen and there sat Ema, looking absolutely fabulous, and drinking a beer with our husbands. Two more beers were pulled out of the fridge, and Anne and I settled around the table. Ema had come to tell us that she couldn't stay for dinner, but she didn't leave until after 10 o'clock.
I'd heard quite a bit about this woman, and was immediately attracted to her: she manages to radiate beauty and audacity and a certain je m'en foutisme, and is funny as hell. Oh, and she does belch out loud.
Late the next morning, due to some small town Sturm und Drang, Ema stopped by. I'll spare you the nasty details. It was decided that we women would go out for a drink that evening, to a pub owned by an English couple. Then Ema got down to business and did our makeup. I was all into the idea of being girly. When it was my turn, she asked me to take off my glasses, rubbed her thumb over my cheekbone, and hunkered down to look into my eyes. That's when I felt the worst pain I'd experienced since I got my tattoo.
If you know me, you know I'm pretty low maintenance. A swipe of lip balm, a flick of mascara and I'm out the door. So I'd never even imagined that Ema might decide to fucking PLUCK my eyebrows. How -- why? -- do women do this? And why had I never done it? It did make my eyes stand out more from behind my sexy teacher's glasses. I felt as if I'd been initiated into a club, and started talking about how I could get my brows waxed when I got my legs waxed, and blee blee blah blah. (Honest. I really said "Blee blee" and "blah blah." And I looked pretty damn hot when Ema got done with me). There might just be something to being high-maintenance. See below.
I volunteered to drive to the pub, which was about 10 miles away via a curvy, bumpy, narrow road. The three of us settled in at a table, and soon one of the owners came to say hello. The pub has been open a year, and Anne and I asked Dave where he and his wife Helen were from. When he replied Sheffield, we both yelped with laughter; we both have a Sheffield connection. I said, "I used to live in Crookes." and he said "Oh yeah, ever been to the Grindstone?"
OMG, the Grindstone? How many pints of lager did I drink in that place?
He called Helen over and we talked about spots we knew in Sheffield. Helen is my age; Dave is 47, and they moved over here about 18 months ago and opened this pub. I sat there and admired them for their lifestyle choice. It takes a lot to give up your job -- your life -- and move to another country. But they looked so very happy.
I may have drunk many pints of lager in the Grindstone, but since I was driving I only had two beers at the pub. When we got back to Anne's place, I sucked down a few glasses of rosé (the olives we were eating were too salty, yeah, that's it). We ate dinner after midnight and went to bed at two. Anne and her kids came back here with us, so we extended the weekend another day.
Bacchanalia, maybe not. A fun weekend, yes. In spite of having my eyebrows torn out.
Feeling: Motivated to work on my bedroom.
Feeling Guilty: Because I've been working on this blog entry for over an hour instead of helping my kids do a puzzle.
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