A Pedicure in Brazil

I got a pedicure once in Brazil. From what I could tell (because I don't understand much Portuguese), the pedicurist was impressed with my feet. She would squeeze my toes and hold them up for the other girls to see, like they were cute little puppies. And because I was in Brazil, this all seemed to be OK.

Of course, I wouldn't dream of getting a pedicure or manicure here, nor would I wear cuff links or cologne, and I try to avoid dressing in a way that distinguishes me from anyone you might meet in WalMart.

So naturally I was surprised when Jam came to inspect the job site today, complete with his new pedicure, buffed charcoal black paw pads, a hint of mascara around the eyes.

And like most bad-boy corporate-climbers and style-setters, he spent most of the day napping, recovering from the crazy night before, or so I suppose.

In the meantime, I've been leveling out the floor and preparing to put down a layer of Ditra, a waffle-like fabric stuff that goes between the old floor and the new tile and that should help keep the crack from returning and causing my new floor to crack.

Because Jam is so very cool, I hoped to impress him with my flooring details. But unlike Willow, who can listen for hours and who cares about the work (mostly), Jam can't even pretend to care. He is shopping for a Lexus now, which I'm told can be very draining.