Confessions of a Serial Swooper

I had a dentist appointment yesterday.   Woot!  Woot!

No really, I did have a dentist appointment at 8:45 (boooo) so I got a sitter and booked her from 8:30 – 11:30.   My plan was to get my teeth cleaned, get a pedicure, get my eyebrows done, pick up Little Brother’s Mickey Mouse phone left behind at a friend’s house, go to the bank, get the car washed and (if I still had time) pick up a going away gift for a friend who is returning to her home in Ireland.

All smooth at the dentist.  My perfect no-cavity record (of which I am disproportionately proud) remains intact.

9:30.  I arrive at the nail place.

It’s empty.  Smiling nail lady greets me.

You want pedicure?

Yes, please.

Pick color.  Then, you sit. (points to chair)

Well, I was thinking since it’s the 4th of July soon, I might want a little star on each of my big toes.  Can you do that?

Nail lady tilts her head.  Smiles.

I had just used 27 words in that sentence.  Roughly 26 words too many.

Me (pointing at big toe):  Star?  Here?

Oh!  Star!  Ok.  You sit.

A friend had actually suggested that if I’m going for a little nail art, I should really go for it and do a full on flag on the toes.  But, I thought that was a bit much and certainly didn’t think I had the time for that.  I never doubted, however, that it could be done had I actually wanted American flags on my toes.   I mean, it’s a nail place.  Full of nail ladies who can just do that kind of stuff.  Right?  That’s not stereo-typing, is it?  I don’t think so.  I mean, if you walk into an auto body shop, you assume that, even though you only ever go in for an oil change, they could rebuild your transmission if you asked for that.

So, a star.  On each big toe.  Easy peasey.

Not so much.

Forty-five minutes of regular pedicure, regular polish.  Very nice. Then she pulls out the box marked “nail art”.

I’m thinking “Ooooh, look.  A special box!  They must have some really cute star pattern.  Maybe I should have gone with a flag. This’ll be great.”

Well, there was no pattern.  And, the first free-hand attempt was a total disaster.  The so-called “star” looked like a bug splat on my toe.

You like?

Um.   Do you mind doing it again?  Maybe a little smaller?

The next attempt was worse.  Really.  Big Brother makes better stars.

You like?

I’m sorry, no.

And, every time the star didn’t work, it meant redoing the entire polish on the toe.

Over and over.

And over.

Seriously, I wasn’t being fussy.  They looked nothing like stars and exactly like a smudgy mess that, no doubt, I would have had to remove the instant I got home.

And, now there’s a three person line at the nail shop.  And they’re flipping through their 2005 Reader’s Digests and 2006 Women’s Health with noisy aggression.

I’ve been in the chair for ninety minutes.  The massaging back rest has run out of batteries.

The nail lady is stressed.  Like Exorcist stressed.

Me:  You know what?  These other ladies have all been waiting a while.  Is it ok if I do it?

Head tilt.  She smiles (through gritted teeth).  Not understanding.

Me:  Me?  Can I do it?

I extend my hand for the polish.

She exchanges a glance at the other nail lady.   I may have caught an eye-roll.

I am Elaine.

So, I did it.  And, I was out of there fewer than two minutes later.

And, then I had to rush home because it was 11:20 and I had to pay the babysitter.

Too bad I never went to the bank.