Today, I've got a whole mixed batch of unimportant and very important to talk about.
First there's my toenail.
When I am out in public, like at the grocery store or the soccer field or at one of my other VIP places, I am in my heels. All other times, I am barefoot. There is no in between with me. I am either overdressed for every occasion or the poster girl of white trash.
The other day as I was walking around barefoot, I stumbled, (a daily occurrence) and I felt something sharp wedge under my toenail. And now it feels like someone has shoved a giant bamboo shoot under my toenail and it's driving me craaaazy!
And I know you're saying to yourself, "Hey Barefoot White Trash Girl, why don't you just look under your toenail?"
See, here's the thing.
My toes are painted this perfect kicky red called "No Autographs, Please."
I know, right?
And that polish is not coming off until I see Josh today.
And yes my nail girl is a guy. More on that in a minute.
So, I couldn't find the sliver, no matter how much I took the sharp thing on the nail clipper and dug blindly around in there under the kicky red. But all of a sudden, I thought I got it because there was no more bamboo shoot feeling in my toe.
But then today I was doing something I despise.
I was cleaning the house.
And whenever this housewife has to do something as abhorrent as housework, I must have my iPod going full blast. It takes away from the wretchedness. And the feistier the music the better.
So, I was moonwalking to The Black Eyed Peas in between towel folds—and honestly, I don't think what I was doing could actually be called moonwalking, more like spastic backward hop/stumbles that looked like I was trying not to fall over, which I totally was trying not to crash to the floor—and in the middle of my kickass moon walk, I did fall over and now the sliver is back.
I can't wait for Josh to take off this polish.
And I know you're thinking it's kind of weird to have a nail guy but the thing is, I am very comfortable around men. It doesn't phase me to get my pedicures done by a man.
I don't mind men massage therapists, salesmen in girl stores, men in my gym, men doing my hair, men anywhere in my life.
In fact, I'm probably the only woman in the world who really doesn't mind a man gynecologist. I don't care. It's not like he's seeing something original, something that will make me his newest cocktail fodder.
But there is this one thing I must have a girl in my life for—my dermatologist. See, I have 2 moles the size of small meteors and they sit squarely on my ass cheek and they have to be measured semi-annually and I do not need a man measuring my ass every 6 months with his tape measure, and saying, "Yup, this ass has grown progressively larger. The moles, however, look good."
It's just important to me— things like men not knowing the actual dimensions of my ass.
And I really kind of like the fact that a man is sitting at my feet, painting my toes.
Not that I have the upper hand at all.
Josh is a sadist.
He "smooths out" the bottom of my feet like he is sanding down a knotty piece of pine. I mean, he goes to town as I sit there writhing around under his sander hands, progressively getting louder with my "Ow! Ow! OWWWW!"
And Josh is always, "Well, if you'd start wearing shoes like I tell you to, this would not be a problem."
I don't have to remind Josh that no one tells me what to do, not even my hubby gets to order me around. Josh can see that I take orders from no one when he looks at my calloused feet.
And that's what I like about Josh—we're real with each other.
He tells me I have the feet of a mountain man to my face instead of to the nail techs on each side of him in another language as they all smile and look at me and pretend they aren't talking about me.
He just says it. And I tell him if he doesn't lay off the sadist sanding, I'm going to find myself a new nail person.
And he just says, "Really."
Not as a question. Just this smug statement as he raises his eyebrows and looks at the nail techs surrounding him who are gabbing away to each other as they smile snidely at the women in their chairs.
Josh knows my toes are his.
So, here's the reason (besides the bamboo shoot under my toenail) I'm going to see Josh tomorrow.
I'm going on a vacation, Internet, a forced vacation.
See, without going into the gruesome details, my Hubby planned a family getaway for all the men in his family. But then some things happened and the whole getaway kind of fell through and my Hubby was left with these rooms he booked and so . . .
I'm going to Mexico.
I don't want to go to Mexico.
I know that it is a land of drug trafficking, drug mules, gangs, kidnappings, poverty, utter lawlessness and diarrhea.
And none of these things appeal to me.
I know that everyone is involved in the lawlessness there including the taxi cab drivers and the police and I'm pretty sure the little kids who sell cheap crap on the street.
And so we will not be safe anywhere.
I've gotten a lot of advice from people.
My chef friend Dave says I should be safe from parasitic infection if I only stick with bottled water, beer, and stay away from the fresh fruits and veggies. Dave also says the big one that gets everybody is the salsa.
And I ask you, what good is braving police drug lords and taxi cab kidnappers, if I can't have Mexican salsa? Not eating salsa while in Mexico— isn't that sacrilegious?
And the only way I'm going to be able to take my mind off the stress of this "vacation" is if I drink wine. A lot of wine.
But Dave says I have to stick with beer.
I'm not a beer girl. Just like I'm not a camping girl or a bowling girl or a sports girl or a sensible shoe girl.
Beer makes me bloated and in my brother's profound words, "You can't own beer, you can only rent it."
And the beer goes right on through this renter's body like a fast moving current.
So now I have to become a beer drinker to go to Mexico. Great. Plump cheeks, here I come.
Here's the really helpful advice I got on the kidnapping. "You'll be fine. Just try and blend in."
Said as a statement and not a question.
Have you seen me?
My hair is not blonde. My hair is beyond blonde. It is platinum.
And my skin could be used as an emergency beacon if we are ever lost in the total darkness of a cave.
I'm not sure how I'll manage the blending in.
People are also telling me that since we're going to Cabo, kidnappings and drug shootings and diarrhea are very rare there.
Well guess what.
My sister is coming with us and she's a karmic lightning rod for strange and calamitous events. She's been robbed at gunpoint. She's been in two— TWO bank robberies. I worked in a bank for years and never got robbed. My sister makes a deposit and all hell breaks loose and the semi-automatic weapons come out. She's been in train wrecks, derailed train accidents involving injury and death. She's had such rare ailments that the doctors have had to take out the big medical textbooks as they scratch their heads.
We will be the first tourists of Cabo to get kidnapped by taxi drivers, taken to the police's secret torture place where we will be forced to eat salsa, drink tap water and swallow condoms full of cocaine.
Trust me on this.
And I'm pretty sure I'm not good kidnapping material. I like to be comfortable. If I'm comfortable, I'm happy. And when I say comfortable, I mean Princess and The Pea kind of comfortable. And my Hubby will vouch for the fact that when I am uncomfortable, I get a mite snippy.
I might have to complain about gags smearing my lip gloss and if hoods are involved, they better not be grimy before they go over my face. I don't need a breakout. And don't even get me started on too tight handcuffs. I have sensitive skin. And if we have to sleep in the kidnapper's lair, I will toss and turn and most likely pitch a fit, if the sheets are not of a high thread count. And I need a down pillow, not those cheap foam ones. And I get motion sickness very easily, so no speeding in getaway cars. And I'll need my contact disinfection solution because just like the man on TV, I have special eyes. And I will have to have control of the radio at all times because that's just me and because I can only listen to that hopped up Mexican music for so long before I just want to kill somebody or start salsa dancing, either one.
So, I'm certain the kidnapping part of things will be unpleasant for both sides of the fence.
My Hubby is trying to calm my nerves by promising me our resort is safe and that he has arranged a car to pick us from the airport so we won't have to deal with the taxi kidnappers.
But then he says to me yesterday, "Hey, look at this! Trip Advisor says the number one thing to do in Cabo is to Zip Line through the jungle."
Really. Really. Reeeeeeally.
Like I am going to hang my beacon kidnapping target of a body from a string and fly through the dense jungles of Mexico where the guerrillas have made their home.
And I'm not talking the giant monkeys. I'm talking the men with guns, big guns and tap water and a Costco supply of Trojans and a ruthless desire to make a living through abductions.
And to make things even worse, my Hubby informed me today that not only do we not have phones or TVs in our room, we will not have wireless service, either. It's supposed to be a "relaxing" kind of place.
I am certain he is trying to kill me.
How can I go without you, you my beloved Internet for 11 days?
How will I be able to determine what new illnesses I've been stricken with without my Web MD? How will I know what's going on with the constant Facebook party in my computer? How will I go 11 days without googling Mark Ruffalo's sexy hot man-ness?
You are welcome for the eye candy.
And most importantly, how will I go that long without blogging or visiting all my friends?
You are welcome for the eye candy.
And most importantly, how will I go that long without blogging or visiting all my friends?
I don't know if I can take this, Internet.
My Hubby tried to sweeten the pot by adding my beloved Northern California to the trip. So, at least I had that. I could walk the hills of my lovely San Francisco. I could taste the wines of my motherland, Sonoma and Napa without worrying about kidnappings and cocaine condoms and diarrhea. But then yesterday, this AP headline slapped me in the face.
STUDY SAYS CALIFORNIA OVERDUE FOR MAJOR QUAKE
I am screwed.
I'll try to send you a line from California if the state doesn't fall down while I'm there. I will try my best to find a coffee shop in the lawless, kidnapping capital of the world, Mexico. But if you don't hear from me, know that I am trying my best not to get squashed by crumbling buildings or get kidnapped or get diarrhea.
If you don't hear from me before, I'll be back September 9th.
If not, call the American Embassy or the gastroenterologist.
Hasta La Vista, Baby.
Today's Definite Download: The Talking Heads, "Life During Wartime". I went over to youtube to give all you young-un's a taste of David Byrne's brilliance because just talking about his music can never give it its fair due. But when I watched this video, not only was I caught up in the genius of his music making, but I was astounded at his athletic prowess. His eccentric stage presence is unbelievable as he cavorts around the stage, running and hopping and running, never ever stopping. And the thing was, I realized as I watched this 5 minutes of utter coolness and aerobic might, that back in the day, I was there at every single one of his concerts, jumping in place along with him.
It's why we could all eat a Fat Man's Breakfast at 3:00 AM after a night on the town and then fall asleep with those pancakes, eggs, bacon and biscuits and gravy and chocolate milk, all resting in our stomachs without ever gaining a pound. Or wait, was that just me eating the Fat Man's?
Here's the link to David Byrne. You've gotta do yourself a favor and click on that link. It is a sight to be seen.
I'll see you soon, my dear friends. I'll bring you back some maracas.
Life During Wartime
Heard of a van that is loaded with weapons
packed up and ready to go
Heard of some gravesites, out by the highway
a place where nobody knows
The sound of gunfire, off in the distance
I'm getting used to it now
Lived in a brownstone, lived in the ghetto
I've lived all over this town
This ain't no party, this ain't no disco
this ain't no fooling around
No time for dancing, or lovey dovey
I ain't got time for that now
Transmit the message to the receiver
hope for an answer some day
I got three passports, couple of visas
don't even know my real name
High on a hillside, trucks are loading
everything's ready to roll
I sleep in the daytime, I work in the nighttime
I might not ever get home.
Posted by Joann Mannix at 9:19 AM
Labels: blog friends, celebrity boyfriends, Facebook, family, mean people, movies, music, my stable of fears, The Hubby, vacation, whiny illnesses, wine