Mommy has been traumatized.
Be a darling and hand Mommy her purse, would you? Or better yet, open the purse … and you see that little box in there, the one that looks like a small Altoids tin? Yes that one. Just pop it open and bring Mommy a couple — no, better make it three — of the pretty pills inside. And a glass of water too. Thanks, sweetie.
Well, let’s see. The title of this entry has nothing to do with these. And don’t even think about leaving a comment about how much you like the new purple ones or you wish they’d bring back the red ones, or how it’s just so not true that they don’t melt in your hands, because, well, I don’t want to hear it. All right?
M & M here stands for Misogyny & Masochism. Two mints in one. And today I treated myself to a big helping of both, just by going slightly out of my way and veering off the path I’d set for myself. Ordinarily I don’t adhere to schedules, and in fact detest and shun them, preferring to fly by the seat of my fancy pants. But today, by making two small adjustments to my afternoon, I managed to wind up with a few unwanted handsful of M & M.
I went to Pilates, the walk to which requires contact with the teeming, steaming public. It requires me to maneuver my impatient way through the slogging hoi-polloi, to subject myself to the leers of men who think that by staring at my shirt my tits are going to pop out and greet them with a giggle, to be forced to zigzag down the sidewalk in order to avoid the scattered walking patterns of so many slow-moving miscreants. My destination, however, provides me with an hour or so of fantastically controlled movement and concentration in the company of one of my favorite people, my darling Christine.
I knew the walk home would be a repeat of the walk to the studio, if not an even more unpleasant experience, given that it was about 1:20 when I started back, and people would be on their lunch breaks. I was, of course, right. So I thought I would just slip into the nail salon for a bit of a refuge. Forty-five minutes or so of quiet reflection, inventing translations for the Korean banter surrounding me. (And no no no, do not comment about the hilarious Seinfeld episode where Elaine goes to the nail salon and … haha LOL!!!) I was wrong.
Note to Bloomie Nails: Restock. Refuckingstock. It’s been how many weeks since you ran out of OPI “Serenade”? (And by the way, it’s not pronounced “Ser-uh-NAH-day”.)
Kim, my manicurist du jour, spent more time looking around at her co-workers than she did at my nails, thus prompting me to mutter, perhaps not as under my breath as I thought, “Why don’t you pay attention to what you’re doing.” She was more fascinated by the owl talons of the girl to my left than in my utilitarian not-quite-to-the-tip human nails. I, too, was fascinated by the talons, but only because they disgusted me. It was sort of like an accident scene, where the very sight repels you but still you can’t tear your eyes away.
Now, if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s long nails. I don’t “get” them. I can understand nails that extend just past the fingertips to which they are attached. That’s fine. But any longer than that and I automatically assume the possessor has an IQ that she can count on those fingertips. This chick was getting hers clipped, which is one of my least favorite sounds in the world. I used to think that I hated it only when out of context (such as the time I witnessed some dirty bastard on the subway clipping his fingernails and piling the clippings atop his gut, then taking the little pile and flinging it toward the doors). But no, I hate that sound no matter where it is. It’s like an assault.
It was everywhere. To my left. To my right. Behind me. In front of me, performed on a woman who looked like a cross between Bill Clinton and Bea Arthur, who should have been advised that coral lipstick is bad enough by itself and should not be repeated on her fingernails. I even suspected there was someone hanging from the ceiling, a la Cirque de Soleil, having her nails clipped by someone dressed like a harlequin. But I didn’t dare look up. I was stuck in the middle. (And yes, listening to the clipclipclip was about as excruciating as having an ear sliced off.
Granted, it was not as painful as a recent trip to the salon, where I witnessed a customer wielding a pedicure implement on her left big toe’s nail bed, half of which was exposed due to a broken-off toenail [gagworthy enough in its own right], with all the vigor of a sculptor and all the insouciance of a housewife scooping out melon balls, but it was obnoxious enough.
As if that wasn’t enough to turn my stomach, I later saw that the owl talons weren’t limited to just the chick’s fingers. No, her toes followed suit. Long toenails, extending perhaps an eighth of an inch beyond the tips of her toes. (An eighth of an inch sounds like nothing, but believe me, on a toe it’s something.) And not only that, but the pedicure was a French one. French manicures are all right, if done nicely. French pedicures, on the other hand, should be avoided. They make the feet look like elongated, mutant hands. Plus, the only way to really get one is if the toenails are long enough to accommodate the white tip. Hence, ergo, and therefore, French Pedicure = Long Toenails = Gross = I Think I Lost A Lunch I Ate Back In ’86.
Then there was a chick in a thong that shouldn’t have been visible, cutting into the flesh of her hips like twine on an Easter ham. Posture that belied the self-confidence she was trying to portray. A voice more annoying than a squeaky, wobbly shopping cart.
Which takes me to (nothing like a neat segue) … Food Shopping. The next stop in my whirlwind tour of self-inflicted masochism. Yes, I had to pick up a few things at Whole Foods. I had already reserved a fair amount of dread well in advance of my arrival, but the actual experience, as always, surpassed my expectations. Within one minute, I was rammed into by some officious bitch wearing a jacket that I suspect was equipped with shoulderpads (hello, 1985?) and a whole lotta nada as far as style was concerned. And when I was at the register (the time between my arrival in the store and reaching the cash register was thankfully a blur — I think I managed to get everything I needed in five minutes — no hyperbole), another lovely lady jammed her J.Lo-circa-1997(Selena) ass into me in her haste to pay for her stuff so she could then hurriedly waddle back to her office and cram her fallaciously healthy garbage snacks down her gullet. “Fucking PIG,” I said, not under my breath this time.
And so here I am, at home with Essie “Allure” on my nails, which isn’t what I really wanted, but will just have to do.
I’m home and hoping J.Lo+ is choking on whatever grub she grabbed. I’m hoping Shoulderpads McAsswipe has to work overtime. Hoping Miss Thong trips over her cheap red sandals. Wishing nothing but the worst for every guy who leered at my tits, every snail who didn’t realize that we just don’t walk that slowly here in Manhattan, and every alien lifeform whose nails grew so long that she needed to have them almost surgically clipped rather than filed like a normal earthling. And reserving a special place in my heart and in hell (reservations not required) for every girl on the street whose toes peered over the edge of her sandals as if they were on a diving board. (But that’s another story for another day. I can only stand so much.)
The highlight of my day — aside from Pilates, my dog’s “goodbye” before leaving for school this morning, and email from the other DOG — was this. Little stuff, such as a round number, and a five-dollar bill, can actually cheer me up on days when the other little stuff brings me down.
So thanks, darling, for the sweet little pills. The purple ones were divine. Almost as much fun as the old red. But where are the green?
And now, after an afternoon of M & M, Mommy needs a little R & R. Play quietly in the den, and wake me in an hour. And yes, you can have a glass of chocolate milk.
(Please note that the last image was not scanned in. Several of you mentioned, in response to my chastisement about not “getting the joke” of my entry yesterday about the walls having ears, that you didn’t know I don’t have a scanner. Well, consider this my open invitation for someone to buy me one. Yeah, just buy me one. I figure if that bubble-headed asswipe Karyn can ask for $20,000, I can ask for this.)