“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?”
Her: “What your husband do”
Her: “You want me to keep pinky finger long to pick booger???”
Me: (Thinking) where the eff are the Candid Camera people because she.cannot.be.for.real.
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.