Raindrops keep blocking the view of my basil plant in kitchen window — now try singing that to raindrops keep falling on my head; twas difficult typing it to that tune.  Yep, I’m even off key when I type sing.

It’s a lovely cool, rainy Sunday morning.  The perfect day for me to assemble another Ikea puzzle after I sip coffee, read and write a bit.  I’m all snuggled up on my comfy, corner yellow chair and embracing the fact that I have the next week off.  Normally, I’d book a weeklong adventure, but my big shipment from America is coming tomorrow, the plumber is coming tomorrow, and allegedly the Internet guy.  May it all pan out the way I hope it should!  I am going to visit my family in Germany later in the week though, and I’m sooooo looking forward to that.

So, I bought a car on Friday.  A cute little 2009 VW Golf diesel from a really nice Frenchman who also works on the base.  I couldn’t have asked for a better experience in buying a used car.  He did everything he was supposed to; I got it insured and did everything I was supposed to, and we met at the admin building to register the car in my name (something the previous owner did not have to stay for, but he did to help me out).  I feel great about buying this car.  Are you sensing a hiccup?  Yep.  Two numbers were wrong on the VIN number on my insurance card, “Sorry Madame, you must come back Monday with correct number on card.”  Monday is a busy day!  My car rental is the equivalent of $600 a month, and I just paid a few thousand for this ‘new’ car, so you can imagine I’m not liking the evaporating euros.  That said I wouldn’t be able to drive the car this weekend anyway because it has to sit in the parking lot until my tags arrive 5 to 15 days from when it’s registered.  Temporary tags do not exist here.  So, what’s an extra weekend?  I was never meant to save money anyway.  C’est la vie

Twingo is its Nameo! le rental

My baby waiting for me to rev her.

     Before:  And Twingo is its Nameoh! Le rental.              After:  my poor baby waiting for me to rev her.

In September I went to a salon to get my hair done, which turned out to be worse than letting the roots grow out on their own, so my hair has been part witch, part “can you spare a coin?”  It’s a good thing I smile a lot because people would have run from me otherwise.  Anyway a coworker and new friend suggested I try her place out, which is in some god-knows-where village.  I met my friend 7:30 yesterday morning to follow her through the woods, the deathtrap construction, even alongside a canal, to the lil shop on the side of some curvy road.  Who in the hell does hair that early on a Saturday?  Turns out she needs to begin that early because this little shop gets busy, busy, busy, and for good reason.

Not only is the stylist known for her talent, but also the place is just what stressed out women need on a Saturday morning.  Her adorable attendants pamper you, while she works her magic (although Jill, my stylist in Arizona, and Gina, my stylist in Al Ain, if you girls are reading, you’re still my faves).  One guy takes my coat and serves me a Starbucks-worthy cappuccino, the other makes two sisters giggle and pretend orgasm (maybe it was real) while he massages their scalps.  Speaking of which, those two sisters didn’t speak much English, and I don’t speak much French, but we thoroughly enjoyed our time together — and I dare say they were two sexy mamas when they left the place.

There are two tables.  One where we women sit together while our colors are painted on; the other divided by a mirror where the stylist cuts and styles our hair — it’s sort of like a beauty salon whack a mole; she finishes one of us and another pops into a chair.  Meanwhile women cackle and tsk, tsk over the stories of their lives.  It’s the perfect set up, and my GPS better serve me well because if I can find the place,  I’ll go back again.  One day I might even know enough French to offer more than one or two word responses.

See, bathroom selfies are not just for online dating!  Thank God you can’t see the heap of clothes on the floor.

So, things are moving along, and I’m nestling into my version of normal.  Ohhh, I even bumped into a friend and chatted for a bit while lugging my old-lady shopping cart on a cobblestone street to get me some wine and goodies, so I’m turning into a local foreigner.

I’m relaxed and content, and that is exactly how things should be — anywhere in the world — on a weekend morning.  May you all be snuggly and well in your corners of the world.