Because last night’s blog post was HEAVY and ALSO SERIOUS, I thought we could use something a little lighter this evening.
Kind of like how Diet Coke is lighter than the regular stuff, or how helium is lighter than oxygen.
(Bwahahaha! Who is this girl spewing comparisons made out of SCIENTIFIC THINGS on her blog? Because I’m pretty sure she never would have passed the entry-level biology class in college, if her friend, Theresa, hadn’t drawn her outlines and quizzed her relentlessly, and hollered MITOCHONDRIA in her ear fourteen and eleven more times, in exchange for the small fact that she then let Theresa wear her white leather boots with the fringe down the backs of them on a date.)
(I actually miss those boots. Those boots represented the fashion world of 1990 exactly like Jon Bon Jovi represented the music world.)
(White hot, y’all. WHITE. HOT.)
But look at THIS:
My friend, Jewel, posted this on her Facebook wall (or Facebook timeline, or whatever in the blazing saddles of thunder you call your own space on the big social network). I literally laughed so hard, I almost blew my morning cup of coffee all over my computer monitor. I laughed and laughed.
And an hour later, when the vision of this came back to me… I laughed again, all by myself.
It’s a sure sign that I’m suffering from ALL THE CRAZY, exactly like a Crazy Cat Woman does.
(And let’s discuss THAT, shall we? How do you HAVE fifty-six kitties living in your home? Because I’m going to venture a guess that the litter box [boxes?] will slap you across the face until you faint with all the wicked smells. We have two cats, and I feel like our zoo is overrun with them and their naughty shenanigans.)
I think the reason I laughed so hard at this little blurb of a sign is because IT’S ME! People, I pay enormous dollars to my nail technician to make sure that I’m NOT one of those girls who can swoop from the sky and catch her dinner straight out of the lake with her feet. And my little rodeo-loving, cowgirl of a nail technician treats me with kindness and Christian love every time I bring my hoofs in for a trimming.
Dry heels, anyone?
I won’t stand in judgement, if you care to admit it. This blog is a safe place for the sharing of THESE ARE MY FEET, because I once sat in a pedicure throne at a shop owned by a nice Chinese family here in town. The man who was doing my manicure (Which is just weird, because this is Small Town, USA, where men change their own flat tires and rope calves and shoot wild animals with hollow point bullets. It’s not exactly the hot spot where a fellow paints toenails.) brought out all manner of power tools that GRIND, while he spoke in Chinese to his adorable wife, who was busy tending to my friend Amy’s feet. I don’t speak a lick of Chinese (unless General Tso’s Chicken counts as a legitimate phrase), but I’m pretty sure the two of them were saying, “I’m sure she ripped a salmon right out of the water by his back while he screamed with these things before she came in here this morning.”
Which is why I traded their shop for the beautiful cowgirl who does my nails. She and I have been together for almost three entire years now.
She takes care of the feet on her horses, so she knows how to take care of mine, too.
And that’s it for this evening, folks. I’m off to apply every manner of expensive lotions and potions to my heels, so that I’m not harshly judged in my flip flops.