skip to Main Content

My Funky Toenail, Part I

  • November 7, 2008

“I think there’s something wrong with my toenail,” I whisper to Dave. I’m sitting on the couch 17 months pregnant contemplating my horrendous lack of pedicure ( which is second only to my overgrown bikini area that resulted in Dave pointing and shouting “oh my God!” when I was walking around in my maternity underwear).

“Why do you think there’s something wrong with your toenail?” he asks.

“Because both the OB/GYN and my regular doctor say I have the fungus, you know the one where in that commercial that I can’t ever watch now those little monster guys pry up the toenail and jump in?” (Whisper) “I have that.”

Between the bitchiness, the bikini line, and now fungus, I would not hold it against my husband if he CUT AND RAN right now. The fact that he didn’t is either a testament to his love and loyalty or his laziness. Either way, I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve him.

“So what are you going to do”, he asks.

“Well, apparently I have to wait until this kid finally decides to come out and I’m done breastfeeding. The drug I’ll have to take to get rid of it has some pretty bad side effects like growing a third eyeball or something. But I really wanted to get a pedicure so that my 9 other beautiful toes can distract the medical staff from the horror going on down in cooterland.”

“Then just go get a pedicure, for God’s sake. You know they’ve seen it all”, Dave says.

“Yes, but this time I will be bringing some of the “seen it all” with me because it’s actually on MY TOE.”

“Do you really care what they think at the nail place? You know they don’t speak English anyway.”

“No (yes) I don’t care. And besides, if they don’t speak English they can RIDICULE me the whole time I’m there and I won’t even know if they’re talking smack about me.”

“I’m sure they won’t even notice.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m just going to go get it over with.”

I sail (waddle) in to Top Nails as if I haven’t a care in the world. I decide to get the whole shebang and notify the 9-year-old girl behind the counter that I’d like a manicure and pedicure. A voice at the back of the salon starts screaming, “pick color, pick color! She truly must have bionic ears because I can’t even believe she heard me from way back there. I pick out a dark color I will later decide I hate and sit down to wait my turn.

The only fat Asian woman I have ever seen (although in my pregnant glory I am still fatter) motions me over to her station and begins making small talk. Even though I am often guilty of total verbal diarrhea, this woman speaks more in the first five minutes than I have ever heard any of the employees speak ALL TOGETHER in the year I have been coming here.

Her: “So, how much weight you gain?”
Me: “What????”
Her: “What your husband do”
Me: “What????”
Her: “You want me to keep pinky finger long to pick booger???”
Me: (Thinking) where the eff are the Candid Camera people because
Her: “He, he, yeah I wonder who will do your pedicure – I saw your feet when you came in.”
Me: Looking around for cameras, wondering if anyone else will notice the hell I’m in and come replace this psycho broad with a normal employee. Bring on the 9-year-old girl, she can do my feet.
Her: “All done. Oops. Looks like everyone is busy. I do your feet now.”
Me: “Of course.”

Maybe she won’t say anything about my toe, maybe she won’t say anything about my toe, maybe she won’t say anything about my toe…..

Her: “Ooooooh, you got that fungus don’t you.”
Me: (Whimpering) “Yes.”
Her: “Yeah, we see all the time.”
Me: (LIGHTBULB) “Really? You see this all time huh? Then it’s quite possible I now know where I got it!”

She finished, I paid, and then I made as dignified an exit as I could while 17 months pregnant wearing flimsy (probably pre-used) nail salon flip-flops.

I’m not sure but I think there might have been some cackling going on when I left and that’s something that sounds the same now matter what your native tongue.

Don’t hate me because I’m lazy

  • November 7, 2008

My motivation and efficiency is at an all time low. How is it that I get less done now, with both kids in school, then I did when I had a toddler and a newborn clinging to me for the better part of a day? I could nurse my daughter on my left boob, turn the pages of my son’s book with my right hand, get dinner on the table, pay the bills, pick up the dry cleaning, buy the groceries, work out, and shower but I cannot accomplish even half that now? It just goes to show that if you want something done you need to ask a busy person. And right now? That person is not me.

Lately my slovenly habits include blowing off the gym and settling in on the couch after I put the kids on the bus to read magazines, newspapers, and books while simultaneously watching DVR’d episodes of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. I’ve started jumping off the couch after an hour or two looking around in a panic wondering if Dave’s installed a housewife – cam and is in fact watching streaming video of me sitting on my ass.

However this morning I got all “efficienty” and announced I’d take Matthew’s bike to the bike shop for repair and would replace the water filter on our refrigerator. But sadly there’s not enough meth in Iowa to get me to hustle right out for those errands.

So, finally, at noon I decided to shower and get going. First things first, I need to get Matthew’s bike off the hook thingy it’s hanging on in the garage. I lift it up and promptly get smacked in the face with the tire. An F bomb may or may not have been dropped. I manhandle the bike into the back of my mommy – mobile (SUV not minivan) and off I go.

When I reach the bike place I inexplicably morph into one of those women I hate. I start talking to the bike guy and I’m using phrases like “the gear dealio isn’t working because something might have poked through that spoke right there and done something bad.” I tell him I don’t know for sure because it was my husband on the bike ride with Matthew and not me (so now he also knows I’m lazy). Then, for the piece de résistance as he’s trying to decipher my psychobabble I triumphantly pull my cell phone out and announce “I can call my husband at work if you want me to.” Luckily he was a very nice senior citizen bike shop owner and he sent me on my way with promises to call very soon and let us know about the bike. And I’m thinking he’ll probably ask to speak with DAVE and not me.

So, off to Lowe’s for the other exciting errand on my list. I find a really close parking spot so God forbid I don’t even have to accidentally exercise today and head in. I congratulate myself on finding the right department without having to ask someone and I march up and interrupt the conversation of the three Lowe’s employees who are standing around chatting.

I pull the old filter (which I’ve intelligently stuck inside a big Ziploc bag so as not to get the inside of my purse icky) out and tell the Lowe’s employee (who obviously got the short straw) that I need one JUST LIKE THIS. I figure they will totally appreciate my visual aid and will not have to listen to me blather on about serial or model numbers.

He immediately takes me to the display where I question him briefly about the fact that this filter does not look EXACTLY like my filter and in return have to hear some drivel about Kitchen Aid and Whirlpool. When he’s convinced me I have the right filter I head to one of the only two checkout lanes with their lights on at Lowe’s.

Ahead of me is a very senior citizen (what, is Tuesday senior citizen day or something? I actually think it might be) with a big old flatbed full of shit. He’s really old and looks like he might have trouble with the checkout process so I’m all (sigh) this is going to take forever (sigh). Now I know what you’re thinking. Why in the world am I complaining when I clearly have all day? But that’s where you’d be wrong because instead of leaving the house right after my shower I sat down on the couch to read some more and now mama’s on a deadline to make it home before the school bus.

I cleverly and efficiently leave the checkout lane to go to the one next to me, figuring this one will move along faster. I am wrong. The senior citizen in this lane has bought something that has “Kathy” the cashier in a big lather because she keeps scanning his shit and making big old sour lemon faces. She also has a huge rose tattoo on her neck that I CANNOT STOP LOOKING AT especially because Kathy is at least 55 years old and didn’t anyone warn her when she was 19 how stupid that would look in her middle age? And even though this is Iowa our turtleneck season is still not that long.

So anyway, I decide to dash back to my original lane where yet another senior citizen is writing a check. Who writes checks anymore? Oh yeah, all the senior citizens. So I stand there, foot a – tapping, waiting for him and the equally s-l-o-w Lowe’s employee to complete the transaction.

As my business is finally completed and I’m getting ready to grab my stupid filter it occurs to me that the real dumbass here is me. Not only would I have been out of Lowe’s days ago if I’d stayed in my original lane, if I was really smart I’d have bought two filters so that I wouldn’t have to repeat this shitty errand again for 6 months instead of 3.

Back To Top
×Close search