I have a good friend named Carmel. We have known each other since the 5th grade.
What I am about to tell you is all her fault.
On one of her visits last year, she gave me a gift certificate for a pedicure. I was reluctant. I had never had a pedicure, and my Protestant nature viewed them with a bit of ….. disdain.
Carmel felt that I deserved some pampering. That doing something for myself would be good for my soul. She had grown weary of my plow-horse mentality.
Who the hell can’t cut their own toenails for-cyring-out-loud? What kind of pampered, self-indulged spoiled brat spends good money on pedicures??!
I knew that if I didn’t use the gift certificate Carmel would never forgive me. Moreover, she would never shut up about it. So off I went.
Thus began my year long love affair with pedicures. God do I love pedicures! I broke off my relationship with my toes and gave it to someone else. I even indulge in the occasional manicure.
I need to digress for a moment to share with you some pictures of things I have painted. Every room in my house has been painted by yours truly. I am not an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but I do have a steady hand and have managed to turn out some respectable efforts:
As I mentioned yesterday, this has been a week of back to school activities. This includes back to school clothes shopping. Combined with horse shows, I have been hemorrhaging $$.
Last night I decided to tackle my toes.
Witness the destruction:
I am not prone to spasms, I was not drunk. I am hard pressed to explain what happened. I was happily painting my toes. Suddenly the bottle was flying out of my hands. In my attempt to grab it, I performed a Jackson Pollack in my kitchen.
I think it may have been the spirits of my nose-to-the-grindstone forebearers …..
purlingswine 