This week, Seamus (our long-suffering-but-well-travelled-dog) and I had matching moles removed. Well, mine was a mole. His was a big gross knob of grossness. But they were in the same spot, on both our right shoulders. I'm pretty sure that makes us dermatology soulmates or something. Seamus had his surgery yesterday and let me tell you, does he ever look handsome. But why tell you when I can show you? First, though, a picture of him in his glory days of ultimate cuteness:
Totally adorable, right?
Wait for it........
Wait for it........
Anyway, the good news is that we're both fine and dandy now even though I wrecked the car in the process and I'm jealous that Seamus got drugged and I didn't. Okay, I didn't totally wreck the car. The other car wasn't even moving, so how much damage could I do, right? Here's what happened. Every time you park your car in Brasilia, there's usually a parking lot guy, and you make a "contract" with him that he will watch your car and help you get out of the impossibly tiny parking places in exchange for a few reais upon your return. Protection money, as it were. I saw the Godfather, I know how it is. What is a Brazilian contract? He gives you a thumbs up and you give him a thumbs up back, and the deal is made. So, I'm late for my dermatology appointment already because I can't find a freaking parking place that will accommodate our beast of a vehicle. Forty-five minutes of driving around downtown, and I'm near tears and cursing. Finally, a parking lot guy waves me into his lot. I see that there is a shiny black car double-parked at the end of a row of vehicles. I shake my head no at the parking lot guy, my car is too big. He is confident! He can make this happen! He has children to feed just like everybody else, so get your big-ass car on in here, lady! I slowly start inching my way past the double-parked car.
One of my biggest fears while living here has come to pass. I've gotten into an accident with no portuguese skills and no one around who speaks English. I get out (the parking lot guy disappeared the instant the scratch happened), and the shiny black car guy gets out of his car. He is pissed, and tells me so, yelling in portuguese and making wild hand gestures. I do the only thing that comes naturally to me. Burst into tears. This technique has served me well in the past. Brazilians HATE to see women cry. I think because their women would rather slap them across the face than cry. Anyway, the guy immediately stops yelling, has me write down my husband's number (because Gah knows only a man can fix this situation), and waves me back into my offending crazy-lady vehicle.