Cream Doors and Red Toes

What I don’t have tonight is something substantial to talk about, because my life has been filled with painting interior doors and wearing a hideous pair of paint-splattered shorts, circa 1994, with an Old Navy T-shirt from the same generation all week.  It’s hard to come up with anything substantial to write about when you’re dressed like a girl at the lake who needs a cold Zima to sip while she listens to Boyz II Men and Richard Marx on her portable CD player.

Of course, said girl is also decorated with a fair amount of paint smears on that outfit, because sometimes when she slops, she simply grinds her teeth tightly and THINKS obnoxious words in her head about THE SHEER VOLUME of closet doors she has in her house, and then she wipes the slop all over her clothes, because really?  You might just as well; ruining that outfit with paint in Innocent Cream isn’t going to be what holds you back from being asked on a date while you’re wearing it.  I think it goes without saying that I was A VISION this week in my painting get-up.  The scrunched up  ponytail on the top of my head and the snarl on my face only complimented the outfit that would be better suited for the landfill than the home.

So what I am going to talk about tonight is simply random stuff.

Random stuff like pedicures.

Because listen, y’all.  I used some of Hubs’ hard-earned dollars a few days ago to secure the deluxe pedicure, and when it came time to do my usual white-tips-with-clear-polish-exactly-like-the-French-do-things on my toes, I actually threw caution to the wind and boldly said, “Let’s do something pink.”

It was like I didn’t even know myself.  I was a total stranger in the salon.

I think it’s because I have NEVER had colored toenails.  Never, which is a word defined by NOT AT ALL.  I’ve always fallen into the Boring Girl With the French Pedicure category, which can be classy and timeless, just like Jackie O. or a Rodeo Queen, until this last week.  The nail technician, who is perpetuating the idea that yes!  I really could be a Rodeo Queen just like she is! gasped and said, “Finally!”

And that is how I came to have toenails painted Charged Up Cherry.

In order for you to get a mental picture in your head, I want you to think back to any roller rink that you visited in 1984.  Remember the lights?  And remember how the DJ would crisscross all the colors on the floor, which was so much fun to skate to in junior high school, but would now bring on a form of motion sickness that would drop you faster than childbirth?  Well, Charged Up Cherry is a whole lot like the PINK lights from the ’80s roller rink.

The morning AFTER my pedicure, I stumbled into the bathroom without my contacts in, and I happened to look down at my bare feet, and then I gasped as adrenaline surged through every vein and artery I own.  All I could see in the blur that used to be pretty good vision, but which is now considered pretty bad vision, was a fuzzy bit of psychedelic reddish-pink, and I thought (Oh, I thought!) I had apparently amputated part of my foot overnight and was bleeding out.

And then I remembered that I was adorned and decorated with Charged Up Cherry, and my morning immediately calmed down, and I took a shower.

And then it was all business as usual, because I had my 709th interior door to paint, so I put on my NON-Rodeo Queen outfit, took the bull by the horns, and I got ‘er done.

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