Culture & Entertainment
An Open Letter to Barb
Culture & Entertainment
An Open Letter to Barb
Dear Barb, You don’t mind if I call you Barb, right? I don’t know you, but I feel like I do. Like you, I’m a mom, and as you can imagine, I only get a few hours a week to myself. Because the rest of the time, I’m taking care of my kids. The rest of the time, I’m cooking for the kids, chauffeuring the kids, washing their laundry, helping with homework, building Lego fortresses and fairy castles, sourcing crafts, arranging play dates, and volunteering at school. Oh and in between all that, I’m working. As you can imagine, those few hours I actually get to myself are precious. Most of the time, I spend those minutes with my girlfriends or baking, but sometimes I go to get a manicure. If I’m really lucky, I can cram in a mani-pedi.
At the nail salon, it’s a calm, peaceful environment: minimalist, clean and uncluttered. They always have a sappy chick flick on, muted with subtitles running, while soft 70’s elevator music plays in the background. It’s a place where I can shut of and be pampered. Most of the time, I don’t even notice who else is in there. And though I know from time to time there’s a testosterone blast as a guy comes in for his nails or a waxing (please god not the back… oh wait, please god do the back) it’s no big deal. They tend to discretely slip in and quietly slip out, usually leaving a massive tip. But here’s the thing, Barb: this week there was a man who’d come in for a pedicure just before I did. I noticed him because he was squabbling with the manicurist over the shape –he wanted them particularly rounded. Not just rounded, but
particularly rounded. That was ok, because he settled in after that. For about 5 minutes. Why only 5 minutes, Barb? Because that’s when his cell phone loudly blasted. He answered it, to the relief of every other customer, but to their grief and dismay, he started talking. And talking. And talking. Barb, in case you need to know, he’s going to start doing open houses again, but only with one specific female agent. She’s young and blond and has a tight ass.
Also, he feels really strongly about interracial marriages. Some races are beneath him. I won’t mention what faith he is, for that would only demean the rest of the religion. Oh and Barb? I know what you’re like when you’re PMSing. I know what cravings you have, how bloated you are and how bitchy you get. For the record, the blue dress does make your ass look fat. The kicker, Barb, is that you sent him there. To that nail salon. He said so on the phone. So I’m not mad at him, his rudeness or the lack of the salon staff to shut him up even after 4 of us complained. No Barb, I blame you. You wrecked my blissful spot and my only time off this week. On behalf of stressed out mothers and weary wives everywhere, I’d give you a mighty one-finger salute, but I think your husband already did that for me. Enjoy!
At the nail salon, it’s a calm, peaceful environment: minimalist, clean and uncluttered. They always have a sappy chick flick on, muted with subtitles running, while soft 70’s elevator music plays in the background. It’s a place where I can shut of and be pampered. Most of the time, I don’t even notice who else is in there. And though I know from time to time there’s a testosterone blast as a guy comes in for his nails or a waxing (please god not the back… oh wait, please god do the back) it’s no big deal. They tend to discretely slip in and quietly slip out, usually leaving a massive tip. But here’s the thing, Barb: this week there was a man who’d come in for a pedicure just before I did. I noticed him because he was squabbling with the manicurist over the shape –he wanted them particularly rounded. Not just rounded, but
particularly rounded. That was ok, because he settled in after that. For about 5 minutes. Why only 5 minutes, Barb? Because that’s when his cell phone loudly blasted. He answered it, to the relief of every other customer, but to their grief and dismay, he started talking. And talking. And talking. Barb, in case you need to know, he’s going to start doing open houses again, but only with one specific female agent. She’s young and blond and has a tight ass.
Also, he feels really strongly about interracial marriages. Some races are beneath him. I won’t mention what faith he is, for that would only demean the rest of the religion. Oh and Barb? I know what you’re like when you’re PMSing. I know what cravings you have, how bloated you are and how bitchy you get. For the record, the blue dress does make your ass look fat. The kicker, Barb, is that you sent him there. To that nail salon. He said so on the phone. So I’m not mad at him, his rudeness or the lack of the salon staff to shut him up even after 4 of us complained. No Barb, I blame you. You wrecked my blissful spot and my only time off this week. On behalf of stressed out mothers and weary wives everywhere, I’d give you a mighty one-finger salute, but I think your husband already did that for me. Enjoy!
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