Little by little, I’m letting go of all the things I was a slave to since I moved out at the ripe age of 19: cooking, cleaning, window washing, painting, etc…..making everything merry and bright and pretty much anything and everything domestic. Been there, done that. I spent years making our house a home in decorating, DIY network window treatments, painting the rooms so many times my friend would tell me, “You’ve lost 4 f’ing feet in the circumference in just coats of f’ing paint.” I’m done. I don’t care if my house is “as is.” In fact, I love my margarita green and flamingo pink deck, and I love all its tackiness. I did hire a college kid to paint my kitchen and my daughter came home from school and commented, “Well, at least now we’re upper lower class.”
Off the tangent, the point is I’ve replaced all that, and added bi-weekly manicures among other things for me. Did you know you could smuggle booze into salons? We do it, and that’s exactly what we did this week. My oldest and dearest friend of 46 years stopped at the liquor store and brown bagged us some libation like street drunks scoring some cups from our deli friend next door. We drank, kibitzed, answered text messages in between mani’s and pedi’s. They treat us like royalty there and Man-Hands-Anna gave me an extra 10 minutes on top of the 10 minute massage. It was being Anna manhandled that I had a deja vu moment of something that happened a few months prior at that same nail salon.
I try and go early in the week right after work before all the school moms bring their kids in for their weekly Essie Ballet Slipper mani/pedi’s . You bitches know exactly which color I’m talking about! It’s like a damn town ordinance. When they’re really feeling wild and whore-ish, they’ll do a boor-ing French manicure with Oh! ballet slipper undercoat. It’s still virginal pure and works well with the little black dress for the Junior League fundraiser. Save the French for someone in the medical field that needs to look as if they have clean nails. Anyway, I’m going for the big time and getting a mani and pedi on this particular day most likely in the color change gel. It was just prior to peep-toe season because I don’t usually get pedicures since my feet are too ticklish. I can literally crack a tooth or need a mouth guard afterwards with the gritting I do, and added to that my inability to offend anyone and ever say, “No,” I end up agreeing to that callous remover, aka acid lead paint stripper for feet. At that point, I’m really writhing in the chair needing a straight jacket.
Pedi’s come first as you all know so your tootsies can dry well so you don’t have to wear those stupid foam bird looking things on your feet to the grocery store afterwards. The ONLY other customer in there is a man and of course they have to seat me right next to him. There are six f’ing chairs and I have to sit next to Suit Man. He was already making comments to the owner (who is a man) that he didn’t come in for him to give him a pedicure. He wanted one of the girls. Of course he did, but it was obvious that the owner knew him and I bet my ass none of the girls wanted to pedi the El Pervo. Then I got a glimpse of the feet attached to the Suit. Holy Shitoid! I felt like asking him if he walked to the salon from another f’ing state! You had socks and shoes on those filthy, nail curl over, crusted, and cracking as a homeless person feet? I closed my eyes and pretended I was meditating because he was one of those A-holes who wouldn’t shut up and just liked to hear himself talk. I finished up first since my toes are pristine unlike Crusty Homeless, so I got to move to the front for my nails. Thank you sweet Jesus. Guess who moves right the F next to me for a manicure? Yes, crusty homeless feet. Now there are like 5 stations on both sides and I ask why, why, why me? Why?!?!?
At this point a couple of women had come in and are starting their pedicures. The back door of the joint opens and it’s as if I sensed it, this behemoth is charging like a bull to the front right towards me and Suit. He saw it. He went pale. My brain went uh-oh. She looked at me and no words were spoken yet so I didn’t know why I got the “glare.” I’m sure I had on one of my “I’m not dead yet” ensembles that throws up the colors of the rainbow. I must’ve looked pretty good to warrant the “look”. Then she asks Suit, “What are doing here? When did you get off the train? When did you get out of work?” You know that semi-automatic line of questioning from a wife to a guilty husband. Suit is pale as shit. Matter of fact, I was surprised he didn’t throw up. He calmly told his behemoth he had just got there (YOU LYING PIECE OF SHIT), and just needed to get his fingernails cleaned up after the weekend of working around the yard (or digging your own grave). Mind you, his homeless feet were already tucked back into his shoes so he failed to mention he had his tootsies tickled by one of the girls. My eyes were darting from my manicurist to Behemoth to Suit to the owner to the pedi ladies in the chair to the back door flying open and what to my wondering eyes should appear? No, not Santa. My friend, Maggie, with bagged libation in hand, donning those fugly circa 1975 duck boots with a raincoat, albeit attractive, but whatever was underneath wasn’t showing so it made her look like a flasher. I just started laughing because she comes barreling in as if she owns the joint and tells me to hurry up so we could get our happy on. Bless her soul because she saved my ass that day and perhaps my life because I think Behemoth thought me and her homeless knarly footed husband were having couple services.
Suit was done with his creepy fingers, and I almost advised him, “Hey lying POS, you may want to treat your wife to her pedicure since you got snagged,” but remembering my new boundaries, I zipped it. I must’ve channeled that to the stupit because he yelled back to Behemoth that he would pay for her and she yelled back, “I’ll pay for it myself, that’s something you do for a girlfriend!” Well, clearly he wasn’t gettin’ hisself all ditty’ed up fer you honey since you didn’t know he was a regular at your salon.
I escaped unscathed to happy hour with the flasher, but not before making multiple faces to all my girls working at the nail salon. It took everything they had not to burst out in laughter. I’m sure this scene made their day and possibly week. Suit probably had to go find a way to extract his testicles after his wife rocket launched them up his ass and deservingly so.
The Lesson: If you lie, you’re gonna get caught.
The Word According to Be Hoxie (Hok-see) 