Someone brought up the subjects of deep dark secrets the other day and how she and her husband were confessing theirs to each other, and to other very close friends and it got me thinking about how I don’t have any deep dark secrets. Not a one!
The closest thing I’ve got is when I kind of sort of stole a coat. I didn’t even steal it, it was in the lost and found and I just kind of claimed it. Okay so it wasn’t actually in a lost and found per se, but I watched it carefully for weeks as it sat on that coat hook at the gym and determined that with the varying hours I arrived and the varying people that were at the gym each time I came that it was obviously left there by someone who had no idea they had left it and would not be coming back to claim it, and I can’t really help that I always wanted a wool peacoat and that it was in my size, now can I? The irony is that I quit that gym shortly thereafter (partly due to laziness and maybe partly due to guilt) and am now fatter and can’t fit in it anymore. Ah Kharma, you cruel bitch!
Sure there are things I’ve done and said that I would regret if they were all laid out before me at the gates of heaven or whatever. But there’s no DEEP DARK SECRET. No gasp-inducing regrettable deed and instead of counting my blessings that I didn’t do something incredibly stupid in my youth, I pretty much feel like a loser. Shouldn’t I have some wild and crazy stuff to look back on and regret? I’m not saying that I wished I’d killed someone and put their body through a wood chipper or anything but why couldn’t I have slept with my best friends boyfriend or done something stupid involving stolen sheep and the high school gym (hey I grew up in a small town, what do you expect?)
The only thing that gives me hope is that I still have a lot of life in front of me to commit that horrible deed and earn that Deep Dark Secret. I just hope it’s something juicy. But not too juicy because I don’t want to cheat on my husband or end up in jail or embarrass my kids. Okay, so I’ll settle for a Shallow Dimly Lit Secret.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Bad Chianti, Good Fun, and Projectile Vomit
We hosted a game night(board games and Guitar Hero) at our house this weekend. The guest list consisted of my husband’s co-workers, most of whom I had never met, and my 2 best friends. Things went really well, especially for it being one of my parties since they’re notoriously awful.
One of Matt’s friends brought a Chianti from her home town in Italy and even though I’m not much of a wine drinker and the only thing I know about Chianti is what I learned from watching Silence of the Lambs (that cannibalistic psychopaths enjoy it with human liver and fava beans), I thought I’d give it a try. After the first sip I almost wished I had a human liver to chew on just to take the taste of it out of my mouth! I wanted to be a good host though so I proceeded to sip it until I could work my way to the bedroom and stash the cup in my sock drawer.
I genuinely liked the majority of the attendees. One gal in particular caught my eye. She was very nice, chatty but not annoying, interested in the kids, excellent board game player, not too skinny, perfect new friend material and since I’ve only got 2 ½ friends I could use another. I’m really awkward though with friendship beginnings. My strategy is to tell Matt to tell her that I want her to be my new #2 friend. Technically I want her to be my #3 friend but that just doesn’t sound as good as offering her the #2 position so I’d just tell her she was #2 until I knew her well enough that she could perhaps actually knock off my #2 and rightfully earn the title. Maybe I should just do one of those yes or no notes that were oh so helpful in junior high.
One of Matt’s friends brought a Chianti from her home town in Italy and even though I’m not much of a wine drinker and the only thing I know about Chianti is what I learned from watching Silence of the Lambs (that cannibalistic psychopaths enjoy it with human liver and fava beans), I thought I’d give it a try. After the first sip I almost wished I had a human liver to chew on just to take the taste of it out of my mouth! I wanted to be a good host though so I proceeded to sip it until I could work my way to the bedroom and stash the cup in my sock drawer.
I genuinely liked the majority of the attendees. One gal in particular caught my eye. She was very nice, chatty but not annoying, interested in the kids, excellent board game player, not too skinny, perfect new friend material and since I’ve only got 2 ½ friends I could use another. I’m really awkward though with friendship beginnings. My strategy is to tell Matt to tell her that I want her to be my new #2 friend. Technically I want her to be my #3 friend but that just doesn’t sound as good as offering her the #2 position so I’d just tell her she was #2 until I knew her well enough that she could perhaps actually knock off my #2 and rightfully earn the title. Maybe I should just do one of those yes or no notes that were oh so helpful in junior high.
One couple though seemed less than thrilled with my company and when I talked to Matt about it afterward he thought it might be due to the fact that they’re bible thumping Baptists and well let’s just say that I, and my 2 best friends didn’t realize we needed to censor our normal witty banter that’s perpetually peppered with mild profanity and plenty of blasphemy. Taking the Lord’s name in vain is pretty much a hobby for me. I’m not quite sure what Matt was thinking inviting them or why he didn’t issue the warning to us beforehand. Inviting a Baptist to my house is pretty much like inviting Jesus to a comedy club on Jesus Joke night:
Why can't Jesus eat M&M's? ---------They keep falling through his hands.
Why did Jesus cross the road? ------- Because he was nailed to the chicken!
Oh come on now, don’t act so shocked (that chicken one was pretty bad though). I'm confident that God doesn’t mind! He has a twisted sense of humor too – how do I know? Because I’ve seen myself naked.
Oh come on now, don’t act so shocked (that chicken one was pretty bad though). I'm confident that God doesn’t mind! He has a twisted sense of humor too – how do I know? Because I’ve seen myself naked.
By far, my favorite part of the evening was when Aaron threw up all over one of the guests. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet all day and had actually been sick a little bit that morning but it was during a coughing fit so we didn’t really associate it with any flu like symptoms. However, as my friend Carrie was taking her leave – since she had another function to attend, she bent down to give the boy a kiss and he obliged, and then turned his head and projectile vomited on the pant leg of the nearest guest. I spent the rest of the evening torn between concern for him, embarrassment for having my kid throw up on someone, and trying to stifle my laughter at the hilariousness of it all.
Can’t wait till the next game night!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Single handedly keeping the mustache wax industry alive.
I couldn’t resist sharing this! The World Beard and Mustache Championship photo gallery.
My favorite thing is how they all dress in costume to coordinate with the style of their mustache. Because well, you’d just look downright silly with a beard/mustache like this in jeans and a t-shirt.
My favorite thing is how they all dress in costume to coordinate with the style of their mustache. Because well, you’d just look downright silly with a beard/mustache like this in jeans and a t-shirt.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Who doesn't like frozen nostril hair?
It's so damn cold here today that the snow has crystalized and when you step in it, it makes this terrible mini 'fingernails on a chalkboard' scrunching sound. And even though it's only touching your shoe, every single skin cell recoils as if you've just donned a suit of crusty 1970's polyester shag carpeting
Or maybe it's just me.
Or maybe it's just me.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Do Over
There are a lot of things in my life that I’d like to do over. We all have things that we regret, but mostly I’d like to explore and recreate some of the moments in my life that I’d just like to have the opportunity to do over, whether it be a small moment or a large event. Things that I’d love to go back and tackle with the benefit of the learned wisdom I’ve gained throughout the years and the small amount of self respect I’ve managed to amass just in the last few years of my life. This post is about a small moment, but one that has played out in my mind countless times, and always accompanied with a twinge of regret at what I could have said and done, but didn’t.
I wasn’t a popular gal in high school; not very many friends and not even a trace of a boyfriend. I was the smart one, the band president – you get the picture. Well prom rolled around and there I was, dateless of course. So what were my options? I wasn’t so down on life that I wanted to skip the whole thing. I felt I should experience it. After all you’re only in hell – I mean high school once. So I allowed this “friend” of mine to hook me up with this guy that she worked with at the local grocery store. He was my age but from a neighboring town. Seemed like a good idea. He needed a date for his prom, I needed one for mine, and there was the added benefit that we didn’t know each other – no preconceived notions, no caste system/clique expectations from fellow classmates, etc.
I was less than thrilled when I met him but what’s a girl like me to expect? His face was as flat as a pancake and pinched in at the nose so much that I wondered how the kid could breathe properly. He danced like an ape and kissed like a Labrador. I’m not even exaggerating that one. I literally had to wipe my face off with my sleeve. His tongue was like an unattended garden hose with too much water pressure flailing around inside my mouth – ugh, it was awful. I decided not to post his image on here simply because I didn't want to fight off the urge to puke everytime I viewed my own blog.
We did the prom thing. His prom was tolerable since I didn’t know anyone. My prom was barely tolerable. I spent half the night thinking I would have been better off on my own and the other half wishing that I had screwed up the courage to ask the guy who was going with my best friend. I’d always had a little thing for him, and he was being the sweetest geek in the world to her. There were a few moments where I contemplated taking out her knee with a tire iron and then locking my date in the band practice room so that I could try and steal him away. Shameful, I know, but there it is.
Anyway, onto the point of my story. This guy and I kind of sort of dated after the prom. Not that he ever took me out or anything. Just called me or I went over to his house and watched TV or played pool. I don’t think either one of us really liked each other but we were such desperate self-loathing high school cast offs that we clung to each other pitifully. One afternoon he had invited me over and when I arrived found a couple of his friends – whom I had never met before since he never took me anywhere – playing pool in his basement. I waited for an introduction and instead the first thing one of them said to me was this: “Oh is this her? You were right, she’s not fat at all!” and he had this smirk on his face. I can close my eyes right now and see that smirk. If I were ever in a position where it was absolutely necessary for me to kill someone. All I’d have to do is imagine that asshole’s face and that smirk and I’d be able to strike the final blow with such unmerciful accuracy and rage that you’d think I was a trained assassin.
And what do you think that pile of steaming dog shit that I was “dating” did? He kind of smiled his own little mini-smirk, led me into the other room and didn’t say a thing in my defense. Now when I look back on this event of my life, I’m not really mad at him, or even the asshole. I’m mad at myself. Mad that I just stood there and took it and didn’t say a thing. Mad that I didn’t just turn around and walk out. Mad that I subjected myself to such humiliation and that a part of me was convinced that I deserved it or at the very least shouldn’t expect any better.
So what would I do if I could recapture that moment? If I could replay the DVD of my life and skip back to that chapter how would I react? Well I’ve given it a lot of thought over the years and a lot of scenarios have come to mind but I think my favorite is this: Instead of looking down at the floor I’d stare right at prom date boy with a look that said “are you seriously not going to say anything to that”, then I’d clear my throat and say, “Oh is this the friend you were talking about? I don’t think he’s an idiotic asshole at all!” Then I’d turn around triumphantly, walk to the door and say, “Well, it’s been a regrettable experience, why don’t you find someone else to slobber on with that huge cow tongue of yours.” Of course they’d be standing there aghast at my retaliation. A shaft of light would come in through the window and highlight both my inner and outer girl power and beauty, and they’d forever live to regret insulting such a woman. Somehow the stereo would magically turn on and Aretha would be shouting out R E S P E C T as I slammed the door.
What really happened was that I didn’t say a thing, and I stayed there as if nothing had happened. My only form of revenge was never calling him back and he never called me and that was the end of it. Pathetic I know, and that’s why now when it comes back to mind, I just replay my newly improved version and everything is right with the world. If I’m having a particularly bad day and that memory pops up I’ll even add in a good knee to the groin and that always makes me feel better.
Look at me! I was HOT. I’ll never be that young or probably that skinny ever again, and I wasted it on that guy. Ah the regrets of youth. Speaking of regrets, check out the linebacker-esque shoulder pads in that dress. Hey, it was the early 90's - what do you expect.
I wasn’t a popular gal in high school; not very many friends and not even a trace of a boyfriend. I was the smart one, the band president – you get the picture. Well prom rolled around and there I was, dateless of course. So what were my options? I wasn’t so down on life that I wanted to skip the whole thing. I felt I should experience it. After all you’re only in hell – I mean high school once. So I allowed this “friend” of mine to hook me up with this guy that she worked with at the local grocery store. He was my age but from a neighboring town. Seemed like a good idea. He needed a date for his prom, I needed one for mine, and there was the added benefit that we didn’t know each other – no preconceived notions, no caste system/clique expectations from fellow classmates, etc.
I was less than thrilled when I met him but what’s a girl like me to expect? His face was as flat as a pancake and pinched in at the nose so much that I wondered how the kid could breathe properly. He danced like an ape and kissed like a Labrador. I’m not even exaggerating that one. I literally had to wipe my face off with my sleeve. His tongue was like an unattended garden hose with too much water pressure flailing around inside my mouth – ugh, it was awful. I decided not to post his image on here simply because I didn't want to fight off the urge to puke everytime I viewed my own blog.
We did the prom thing. His prom was tolerable since I didn’t know anyone. My prom was barely tolerable. I spent half the night thinking I would have been better off on my own and the other half wishing that I had screwed up the courage to ask the guy who was going with my best friend. I’d always had a little thing for him, and he was being the sweetest geek in the world to her. There were a few moments where I contemplated taking out her knee with a tire iron and then locking my date in the band practice room so that I could try and steal him away. Shameful, I know, but there it is.
Anyway, onto the point of my story. This guy and I kind of sort of dated after the prom. Not that he ever took me out or anything. Just called me or I went over to his house and watched TV or played pool. I don’t think either one of us really liked each other but we were such desperate self-loathing high school cast offs that we clung to each other pitifully. One afternoon he had invited me over and when I arrived found a couple of his friends – whom I had never met before since he never took me anywhere – playing pool in his basement. I waited for an introduction and instead the first thing one of them said to me was this: “Oh is this her? You were right, she’s not fat at all!” and he had this smirk on his face. I can close my eyes right now and see that smirk. If I were ever in a position where it was absolutely necessary for me to kill someone. All I’d have to do is imagine that asshole’s face and that smirk and I’d be able to strike the final blow with such unmerciful accuracy and rage that you’d think I was a trained assassin.
And what do you think that pile of steaming dog shit that I was “dating” did? He kind of smiled his own little mini-smirk, led me into the other room and didn’t say a thing in my defense. Now when I look back on this event of my life, I’m not really mad at him, or even the asshole. I’m mad at myself. Mad that I just stood there and took it and didn’t say a thing. Mad that I didn’t just turn around and walk out. Mad that I subjected myself to such humiliation and that a part of me was convinced that I deserved it or at the very least shouldn’t expect any better.
So what would I do if I could recapture that moment? If I could replay the DVD of my life and skip back to that chapter how would I react? Well I’ve given it a lot of thought over the years and a lot of scenarios have come to mind but I think my favorite is this: Instead of looking down at the floor I’d stare right at prom date boy with a look that said “are you seriously not going to say anything to that”, then I’d clear my throat and say, “Oh is this the friend you were talking about? I don’t think he’s an idiotic asshole at all!” Then I’d turn around triumphantly, walk to the door and say, “Well, it’s been a regrettable experience, why don’t you find someone else to slobber on with that huge cow tongue of yours.” Of course they’d be standing there aghast at my retaliation. A shaft of light would come in through the window and highlight both my inner and outer girl power and beauty, and they’d forever live to regret insulting such a woman. Somehow the stereo would magically turn on and Aretha would be shouting out R E S P E C T as I slammed the door.
What really happened was that I didn’t say a thing, and I stayed there as if nothing had happened. My only form of revenge was never calling him back and he never called me and that was the end of it. Pathetic I know, and that’s why now when it comes back to mind, I just replay my newly improved version and everything is right with the world. If I’m having a particularly bad day and that memory pops up I’ll even add in a good knee to the groin and that always makes me feel better.
Look at me! I was HOT. I’ll never be that young or probably that skinny ever again, and I wasted it on that guy. Ah the regrets of youth. Speaking of regrets, check out the linebacker-esque shoulder pads in that dress. Hey, it was the early 90's - what do you expect.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Toddler Cross-Dressing
The benefit of having cousins at school fundraising ages and a mother who can’t resist them, is that I get free magazine subscriptions. When the 4th kid shows up with the order form and she’s already ordered every quilting and Family Circle magazine possible, that’ when she thinks of me. This time around she picked out a new parenting magazine for me, Cookie.
I received my first issue this week and it was interesting if not a little snooty. When they’re showcasing kids clothes with average prices around $80 per item I get a little turned off. And even if that onesie was hand made by a malnourished Ethiopian, I can’t afford to pay $139 for it. I would love to help the Ethiopians, but I’ve had a long standing tradition of supporting child labor in China and Taiwan and I can’t very well just up and pull my aid from them so I’ll continue to buy my onesies at Wal-Mart for $3.50.
The issue did have some very funny pieces in it and one that I found quite thought provoking. It was about a 4 yr. old boy who loved anything pink and liked to wear dresses (click here to see the article). The parents had indulged him and let him wear some costume dresses around the house and then one day he declared that he wanted to wear one to preschool. Well Bravo for these parents because after giving it some thought and preparing the kid for the reactions he would receive, they let him go to school in a dress. He got teased of course but all in all the teachers and other children were supportive. They must live in California, or New York.
It got me thinking though about how I would react if my son wanted to wear a dress. While I applaud these parents for allowing their child to express himself, I’m afraid that if it was my kid I would have told him that although it was perfectly all right for him to want to wear a dress, Mommy and Daddy would only allow it at home, with the curtains closed, at least until he went off to college and then he could feel free to frequent any sort of club his little heart desired. He could even feel free to borrow some of Mommy’s jewelry. Until then there would always be plenty of opportunities in the school play or the swing choir to express some of those tendencies.
It’s not that I would want to suppress his true self but we do live in the Midwest and quite frankly I wouldn’t have the courage to send him out to such ridicule and discrimination. Even me just pondering what it might be like if Aaron had some less than boyish characteristics is probably sending my poor husband into convulsions. Although he prides himself on his tolerance he once said to me in a restaurant where two very obviously gay men were having dinner "I don’t understand why they have to act so. . . so GAY in public." The first step in dealing with your homophobia dear is to accept it.
But I’m quite relieved to report that so far Aaron has had no inclination to wear a dress, though he is quite fond of costumes and really if we just added an Indian outfit he would have a costume to represent each member of the Village Boys. . . hmmm. Just kidding dear.
I received my first issue this week and it was interesting if not a little snooty. When they’re showcasing kids clothes with average prices around $80 per item I get a little turned off. And even if that onesie was hand made by a malnourished Ethiopian, I can’t afford to pay $139 for it. I would love to help the Ethiopians, but I’ve had a long standing tradition of supporting child labor in China and Taiwan and I can’t very well just up and pull my aid from them so I’ll continue to buy my onesies at Wal-Mart for $3.50.
The issue did have some very funny pieces in it and one that I found quite thought provoking. It was about a 4 yr. old boy who loved anything pink and liked to wear dresses (click here to see the article). The parents had indulged him and let him wear some costume dresses around the house and then one day he declared that he wanted to wear one to preschool. Well Bravo for these parents because after giving it some thought and preparing the kid for the reactions he would receive, they let him go to school in a dress. He got teased of course but all in all the teachers and other children were supportive. They must live in California, or New York.
It got me thinking though about how I would react if my son wanted to wear a dress. While I applaud these parents for allowing their child to express himself, I’m afraid that if it was my kid I would have told him that although it was perfectly all right for him to want to wear a dress, Mommy and Daddy would only allow it at home, with the curtains closed, at least until he went off to college and then he could feel free to frequent any sort of club his little heart desired. He could even feel free to borrow some of Mommy’s jewelry. Until then there would always be plenty of opportunities in the school play or the swing choir to express some of those tendencies.
It’s not that I would want to suppress his true self but we do live in the Midwest and quite frankly I wouldn’t have the courage to send him out to such ridicule and discrimination. Even me just pondering what it might be like if Aaron had some less than boyish characteristics is probably sending my poor husband into convulsions. Although he prides himself on his tolerance he once said to me in a restaurant where two very obviously gay men were having dinner "I don’t understand why they have to act so. . . so GAY in public." The first step in dealing with your homophobia dear is to accept it.
But I’m quite relieved to report that so far Aaron has had no inclination to wear a dress, though he is quite fond of costumes and really if we just added an Indian outfit he would have a costume to represent each member of the Village Boys. . . hmmm. Just kidding dear.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Mani-Pedi Phobia
I was thinking the other day after I caught a glimpse of my rugged cuticles, that it might be nice to have a Mani/Pedi outing with the girls sometime soon. Then I remembered every nail salon experience I’ve ever had and determined that nobody really looks at my cuticles anyway so perhaps I should skip it.
Now I’m just going to warn you right now that some of the statements I make in this post are going to be racially insensitive. I can’t help it. I don’t consider myself a racist. I think everyone deserves an equal shot in this world and is just as worthy as anyone else regardless of skin color, ethnicity, gender, sexual preference etc. And the statements in this blog stem merely from my own personal insecurities, rather than the hatred or inacceptance of a people.
You see I find it very uncomfortable to go to a place in which people are using sharp instruments and chemicals on me when I can’t understand a word they’re saying. The only thing I can vaguely understand is the "YOU PICK CALLAH" that is shouted out when I walk in the door and then the "YOU WANT FRENCH?" That’s it. That’s all I can understand and the rest of the time I rely on facial gestures and hand signals.
The other thing I can’t stand is how they’re always saying something to each other and laughing. They’re very happy – and why shouldn’t they be. They get to spend their entire day watching soap operas and Jerry Springer and making fun of the white people while they’re sitting right in front of them; "Do you see all the moles on this one? Look, that one on her neck looks like the little dipper! HA HA HA".
They seem determined to break you up too. The whole point of going to the nail salon with a friend is so that you can sit there and talk to each other, or at least help each other translate what it means when the gal is doing what appears to be charades of some sort; two words, one syllable each, umm, what’s that she’s doing with her hand? Circle, ball, square, oh I know, Yeah I want the nails rounded, not square. Then I’m making the "round" hand signal back to her. It’s just awkward.
My theory is that they have the same concern I do. They don’t like it when two or more people sit together and speak in a language they don’t understand and then start laughing. Maybe they think we’re criticizing the tacky plastic dragon on the counter. So they make a pointed effort to break you up and stick you at complete opposite ends of the salon.
I’m always on edge and then I just get defensive and confused. One time the gal just looks up at me in the middle of trimming my cuticles and says, "YOU NEED WAX.’ or at least I thought that’s what she said, and when I looked at her with my pained and pathetic expression of confusion, she points at her eyebrows and says "WAX" I didn’t know what to do. I mean I realize they’re a little untidy but it’s kind of rude to just sit there and suggest that I should wax my eyebrows. What I didn’t realize was that the nail salon also does eyebrow waxing. So I guess I wasn’t really being insulted, the gal just wanted to make a couple extra bucks by taming my caterpillars.
I’m so on edge when I’m in there that it gets to a point where I can’t even think straight even when someone is talking to me in English. When I was pregnant with Gwen I went for a manicure and the customer sitting next to me looked over and said, "Is this your first?" Now I think partly my addled pregnant brain might have been a factor in this as well, but I was so on edge and tuned in to the manicure, trying to anticipate the next step to avoid having another game of charades, that I turned to her and said, "No, I’ve had one before but that was a long time ago." Only when she gave me a weird look, hesitated and then said, "Yeah me too, my firstborn is 14 and my second is 3." Did I realize that she was asking me if this was my first baby, rather than, if this was my first manicure. I was so embarrassed by being so completely stupid. All I could do was hope that she blamed my odd comment on the nail polish fumes.
So mani-pedis are pretty much out until I either learn to speak Vietnamese or scrounge up enough money to go to a spa or salon that doesn’t have something like this on the strip mall window.
Now I’m just going to warn you right now that some of the statements I make in this post are going to be racially insensitive. I can’t help it. I don’t consider myself a racist. I think everyone deserves an equal shot in this world and is just as worthy as anyone else regardless of skin color, ethnicity, gender, sexual preference etc. And the statements in this blog stem merely from my own personal insecurities, rather than the hatred or inacceptance of a people.
You see I find it very uncomfortable to go to a place in which people are using sharp instruments and chemicals on me when I can’t understand a word they’re saying. The only thing I can vaguely understand is the "YOU PICK CALLAH" that is shouted out when I walk in the door and then the "YOU WANT FRENCH?" That’s it. That’s all I can understand and the rest of the time I rely on facial gestures and hand signals.
The other thing I can’t stand is how they’re always saying something to each other and laughing. They’re very happy – and why shouldn’t they be. They get to spend their entire day watching soap operas and Jerry Springer and making fun of the white people while they’re sitting right in front of them; "Do you see all the moles on this one? Look, that one on her neck looks like the little dipper! HA HA HA".
They seem determined to break you up too. The whole point of going to the nail salon with a friend is so that you can sit there and talk to each other, or at least help each other translate what it means when the gal is doing what appears to be charades of some sort; two words, one syllable each, umm, what’s that she’s doing with her hand? Circle, ball, square, oh I know, Yeah I want the nails rounded, not square. Then I’m making the "round" hand signal back to her. It’s just awkward.
My theory is that they have the same concern I do. They don’t like it when two or more people sit together and speak in a language they don’t understand and then start laughing. Maybe they think we’re criticizing the tacky plastic dragon on the counter. So they make a pointed effort to break you up and stick you at complete opposite ends of the salon.
I’m always on edge and then I just get defensive and confused. One time the gal just looks up at me in the middle of trimming my cuticles and says, "YOU NEED WAX.’ or at least I thought that’s what she said, and when I looked at her with my pained and pathetic expression of confusion, she points at her eyebrows and says "WAX" I didn’t know what to do. I mean I realize they’re a little untidy but it’s kind of rude to just sit there and suggest that I should wax my eyebrows. What I didn’t realize was that the nail salon also does eyebrow waxing. So I guess I wasn’t really being insulted, the gal just wanted to make a couple extra bucks by taming my caterpillars.
I’m so on edge when I’m in there that it gets to a point where I can’t even think straight even when someone is talking to me in English. When I was pregnant with Gwen I went for a manicure and the customer sitting next to me looked over and said, "Is this your first?" Now I think partly my addled pregnant brain might have been a factor in this as well, but I was so on edge and tuned in to the manicure, trying to anticipate the next step to avoid having another game of charades, that I turned to her and said, "No, I’ve had one before but that was a long time ago." Only when she gave me a weird look, hesitated and then said, "Yeah me too, my firstborn is 14 and my second is 3." Did I realize that she was asking me if this was my first baby, rather than, if this was my first manicure. I was so embarrassed by being so completely stupid. All I could do was hope that she blamed my odd comment on the nail polish fumes.
So mani-pedis are pretty much out until I either learn to speak Vietnamese or scrounge up enough money to go to a spa or salon that doesn’t have something like this on the strip mall window.
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