I have a hard and fast personal rule on nail polish, which is that it isn't for me. All digits involved have informed me that my fingers are too long, my nail beds too wide. Nail polish only serves to exacerbate and I tell you that is the gospel truth. I inherited my hands from my Daddy Lovin, who inherited his hands from his Daddy Lovin, and so as much as I appreciate looking at my hands and being able to say hello to two paternal generations, it is not so much the excitement for manicures. Are you following me? During the Black Nail Polish Fad Of 2008 I looked like I was wearing olives. It was really depressing, I felt that loss from the bottom of my heart.
My sister Amanda has perfect nails, at least so my mother always told me growing up. She has the perfect nails and the perfect elastic skin. At the time I didn't quite grasp the part about elastics but now with a nearing-thirty face I am starting to see the appeal.
Anyway I put on the nail polish, because as it turns out, sitting for ten minutes with your hands out of commission is a good way to take a self-imposed meditation break. Sort things out in the old noggin, you know. Watch a little Charlie Brown Christmas.
I took my sparkly nails to work today and together we got to pinch lots of fat baby cheeks. Isn't that fantastic? Would that have happened without the finger sparkles? That I cannot tell you. I choose to believe my sparkly nails manifested those babies. Oh, but wouldn't that be dreamy? I love the mall at Christmas time. I love the over-stressed moms who come in with their youngest offspring because I love nothing more than cooing at fat things and they love nothing more than a moment's peace while they smell body splashes. After a particularly grumpy fatty came by to woo me I remarked to a coworker that the babies were causing my ovaries to vibrate. She looked at me like maybe I was insane which is so confusing because, hello! Don't your ovaries vibrate ever? To be fair she was only 19. I don't think my ovaries started doing circus tricks until I was at least 23? And anyway, not hardly work appropriate conversation, your reproductive organs. I mean, think of the other reproductive organs of which one could combine with "vibrate" and then . . . I blame the nails. They're just sparkly, you know. Sparkles do things to the brain.
After work I let my nails escort me to the Old Navy where I have been hounding - practically stalking! - a sweater that I keep hoping will go on sale. It was not (and they were out of my size - LAME) but that was okay because everywhere I went in the Old Navy all the shoppers were falling over themselves to tell me how fabulous my nails were! Old Navy loves the glitters! And I was lapping it up! "Oh, thaaaaank you," I drawl while splaying my hands out like I am playing an imaginary keyboard, or running my hands through my luscious mane of hair and batting my eyelashes. I was realizing it was getting to my head but I liked this new power, these saucy new fingers.
Those nails just kept on being sparkly and I couldn't help but feel that I was bringing important Christmas Cheer to every place I went! But then a terrible and horrible thing happened, in which I tried to deposit a lousy check for $25 and the ATM ate my debit card. I mean, can you believe that? Those glittery nails themselves sent that card through the slot thinger, you'd think their Christmas Cheer could have prevented something so tragic. That's when I started to wonder. Yea and I questioned mightily these nails, their power for good, their power for . . . evil? Maybe that saucy gold polish had a mind of it's own? A mind to take me down. ?
(Usually it is the shoes in my life that exert this kind of power, the power to make me feel amazing one minute and then strip me naked; bleeding, blistered, hobbling in pure agony and submission by the end of the day. But, nail polish?)
When I got home The Holbs decided to make me dinner. This is very kind of him because due to work and my attempts at Holiday Traditions my kitchen has been woefully ignored by the great Yours Truly. It's just the saddest thing. I go in there lately and all of the cupboards frown at me. They're all, "Oh, it's you," and I have to leave quickly lest they see the tears.
Anytime The Holbs gets in the kitchen it is this grand to-do of culinary adventure. Every pan in the cupboard is used, every sauce in the fridge is consulted, and there is always a special ingredient involved that you are obligated to try and guess while you eat. Hmmm, is it coriander? Ginger? This time, it was onion flakes.
After dinner was finished we sort of looked at each other and contemplated the evening. I was thinking of Mutual and finishing a felt ruffle wreath and The Holbs had visions of Tax Law finals dancing in his head. I knew what was probably going to happen to all those saucy pans in the kitchen, and three times I tried not to say it, but the nails man, those damn sparkles made me do it.
"When I make dinner I usually do the dishes," I prompted, gold-spangled hands fluttering around the chest. The minute it was out of my mouth I knew I was in for it. Who says that kind of thing? Passive aggressive much? The Holbschef's eyes popped and his eyebrows shot straight off his face. I looked at my nails and narrowed my eyes. I was fairly convinced by now that those sparkles were straight from the devil. I made plans to scrub at them with a cotton ball and some acetone straight away.
And then what happened?
My Holbspapi did the dishes, scrubbed the counters, and put all the sauces in the fridge back to their chilly spaces.
The sparkles have received a stay of execution.
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