Even though someone warned me that a killer tsunami (as opposed to a friendly, helpful tsunami) is supposed to cripple any land mass touching the Atlantic today, I still managed to get a pedicure. I chose a shade called “Tacky Whore.”
Ethicist, will this color make my parasite retarded? I know talking to the pedicure lady for an hour almost obliterated my few remaining brain cells. When she left the room to let my feets marinate in a brimming pool of pathogens, I read US Weekly and felt an immediate IQ boost. She was not my regular lady, let’s just say. And there is but a short list of ladies I can stand anyway, so this was decidedly non-ideal. This is a problem that could only happen to me, or possibly someone from “My Super Sweet 16.”
Then I had to take my gaudy trick-turning toes into the waiting room, and the local biddies grilled me about my house I don’t live in. Word gets around. I’m over the house, see. I didn’t like it that much anyway. But the way that unscrupulous snake dealer nearly thwarted my grand entrance and forced me to find a replacement snake at short notice? That was too damn much.