On Sunday, I took a trip to La Picholane. Every now and then, I destroy my girlish figure and knock back five pounds of chocolate from La Picholane. It feels good. Being the smallest one has always had it’s advantages, but so does temporarily sporting thighs the size of Oprah. I’m wearing corduroy right now, and if this isn’t POWER I don’t know what is.
Before I left on my little adventure, I instructed Pepito to remove the 100-year old paint on the salon walls and polish my shoes while he was at it. The guy built a guillotine, so I figured he could handle a simple one-room project. When I got back, there he was, covered in sawdust and sweat, painting a rose on the floor, and what the Hell? He mumbled something about it being the Lord’s day, and if my husband can’t work on Sundays, WHEN WILL MY CHÂTEAU EVER BE FINISHED.
Ombre shutters, swan murals, the list goes on and on. My torero has created hundreds of “artistic” statements, and all of them on Sunday. We have holes in the floor and I just need toilets. Thanks, GOD.