Dec. 10: What dreams may come

My mother-in-law gave me a check recently to buy myself something a sick person would want. I decided the most practical thing right now would be jammies. But wouldn’t a mani-pedi be nice and pamper-y right now, when I’m feeling less than self-confident? Or a new bathrobe? Or even better, a Slanket or Snuggie? I mean, they have built-in arms! Decisions, decisions. Maybe I should sleep on it.

We are in Brussels, trying to find the nail shop where the Queen of England works. Not everyone knows she has a little side job as a manicurist. (Hey, at least she’s not a piss boy.) She’s supposedly really good, and I want the best because HELLO! I’m in Europe. Turns out the nail shop is near Manneken Pis, the little peeing boy fountain, and you really have to know where you’re going because the entrance is just behind the pedestal from which he pees. 

I walk in the door of the nail shop, with Victor tagging along behind. The crowds looking at the statue are suddenly curious as to where the door leads, and Victor’s trying to close it quickly. Elizabeth jumps up from her pedicure stool and screeches at us: “Don’t let people see you come in here! You’re supposed to wait until everyone’s gone!” Silly queen. She knows there’s always a crowd around Manneken Pis. Maybe she should have chosen a lower profile shop for her second job.

After the initial screaming, though, Elizabeth is very friendly. She does my mani-pedi—her reputation is spot-on; she works utter magic with the air brush!—and doesn’t even make fun of my legs being kinda stubbly. We sit around for a bit, just chatting, until she looks at her watch and says she has to leave right away or she’ll be late for a state dinner. I give her a generous tip, and the three of us leave together.

It’s dusk, and the crowds who’d come to stare at Manneken Pis are gone. Who knew?

We walk over to Grand Place, where there’s a town car waiting for the queen. She jumps in, gives us her little queen wave, and zooms off to the airport. I can’t believe she doesn’t offer us a ride.

This is a perfect example, faded slightly by a few hours of sleep, of the drug-induced dreams I have: totally bizarre, very detailed, and full of half-truths. At least this one didn’t involve being chased by a vampiress Kathie Lee Gifford. I hate that dream.