|Lindsey prepares to attend Alex's office holiday party
||[Dec. 23rd, 2008|10:04 pm]
My fingernails are gold and shiny.1 "That's a nice color," says the man sitting next to me at the salon as the polish is being applied. "Thanks! It ended up more gold than it looked in the bottle, though," I say. His response, having misheard 'gold' as 'bold': "Yeah, that's what usually happens with me and whiskey."
- I had been terrified of being Poorly Groomed Girl in a crowd of stylish and sophisticated Googlers in cocktail attire. But the barely-three-weeks-old Indianapolis airport has a manicure-and-massage establishment (they call themselves a spa, but I hesitate to say that, because I don't want you to think that I went to, you know, a spa), and I had an hour and a half before my flight. I picked out a color that looked like creamy pearl, and twenty minutes later (this was an accelerated, airport-style manicure), they looked good, if blingier than I'd imagined. And the party was fun, and nobody threw me out for having an incomplete understanding of what "cocktail attire" means.