Peeping Sundaze
Sunday Afternoons Atop Hotel Andaluc-a
Last Sunday afternoon, a perfectly sweltering, sweaty summer day, I found myself eyeing my bathroom door with a hatred and disgust normally reserved strictly for the parking Nazis who seem to have singled me out as public enemy number one. Why? Because I knew what awaited me, and there was no escape: an event I wouldn’t consider missing was about to get started, and I had to blow-dry my hair. “Just shoot me,” I muttered, to the utter bemusement of my dog, and marched in to face the music. Five minutes of indescribable torture later, I emerged, red-faced, boiling, and defeated with my hair in a ponytail. My dog didn’t seem to think anything was amiss, and, making my way over to the Hotel Andaluc-a, I pretended she was right.
