My toenails; more specifically, my inability to paint them properly.
I believe in painted toenails. I don’t know why, because I almost never paint my fingernails and rarely wear makeup. I’m not exactly a get-dolled-up-regularly type, is my point. And yet, to me, summer = painted toenails. And given that I am far too cheap/lazy to get professional pedicures—hey, I have polish and passable eye/hand coordination—I do my own feet here at home. I am never either drunk or blind before I set out to prettify my feet, AND YET! What the heck is my problem? I manage to BOTH slop polish all over my toes AND miss entire sections of nails altogether.
I have been painting my nails for something like 30 years. You’d think I would’ve figured it out by now…? And when I paint someone ELSE’s nails—like on the rare occasions when Chickadee will allow me to do hers—I’m fine. This leads me to believe it’s some sort of angle issue, but I’m pretty bendy and not tall, really, so it’s not like my feet are all that far away.
[Somewhat-related digressions: Anyone else keep buying pretty colors in different brands because they’re cheap and then getting annoyed when they chip? OPI + MIR = BFF 4EVAH. I am currently sporting Lincoln Park After Dark both to pretend Fall has actually arrived and because the stuff I had on before this was a different brand and was all chipped up by the time I took it off. Also—random recommendation ahoy—am I the last person on earth to learn about Gooey? I appreciate how it keeps the (good) polish on my nails even while I’m scraping it off the surrounding skin.]
My dog (in various ways).
1) The weather was beautiful this weekend, and so yesterday Otto and I took Licorice out for a nice long walk. Look; I don’t begrudge her pooping while we’re out. She’s a dog, that’s what she does. I always joke that I’m going to get her one of those working dog packs so that she can carry her own crap, but so far it hasn’t happened, and fine, I’m a responsible dog owner, I will pick up her poop and carry it until we pass the bus stop with a garbage can, at which point I can stop being That Person Walking With A Bag Of Feces. But I cannot escape the suspicion that the dog really enjoys watching us carry her waste, because yesterday I threw the bag away and about ten minutes later she pooped a second time. By that point, we were kind of equidistant between the trash can and home. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe it’s all part of her plan.
2) By the time we get back from the walk, Licorice’s tongue appeared to have increased in length by at least four inches. She was panting and lolling around on the porch, and no matter how we exhorted her to come drink some water, she ignored us. (Just like our other children, the moment we suggest something, it becomes unappealing, apparently.) She panted and drooled for a good twenty minutes before succumbing and having a drink.
3) To repay us for taking her on such a nice excursion, a few hours later, Licorice apparently discovered a mole hole under the porch. This was Very Interesting. SO VERY INTERESTING, in fact, that she decided to dig to try to find the mole. We know this because eventually she gave up and rejoined us on the porch, completely crusted in dirt, and while I gave her a bath, Otto filled in the hole. Licorice does not enjoy baths and seemed disappointed in us for not understanding that she’d only been trying to help.
Sort of my dog but mostly me.
1) I am a conscientious enough pet owner to carry my dog’s poop around on a walk, but I hate cutting her nails and so hardly ever do it. Licorice is black, with black nails, and that means I cannot see how much I can cut before I make her bleed, and so whenever I DO screw up my courage and start snipping away, it feels like I make no progress (I’m just cutting off tiny tips) and the dog is upset and I’m upset and Otto is laughing at both of us and I alternately vow to do it more often or give up. The end result is that her nails are always too long and I never get any better at cutting them. I have guilt.
2) You’d think the major problem with Licorice’s too-long nails would be that she’s constantly scratching us by accident, and I guess she does, but for me the main problem is actually that her nails bruise me. I AM A DELICATE FLOWER. We always joke that the dog is part mountain goat—she has an impressive leap, and thinks nothing of launching herself either into or off of your lap with no notice—and my thighs are dotted with a pattern of 4-clustered bruises where her nails dig into my flesh when she’s jumping down from my lap. I have all but abandoned shorts at this point, lest someone spot the horror which is my legs and assume that Otto is either very kinky or beating me (or both).
My insistence on Googling things I know I should not.
I bruise easily. I have always bruised easily. See also: Delicate flower. I do not have leukemia, no matter how many times a particularly impressive set of bruises makes me think “Well that seems abnormal, maybe I should Google what might be causing this.” (Of course, now someday I really will get leukemia, and I’ll be all “No, I’m FIIIIINE, no need to see the doctor!”) (This is really how my mind works. It’s scary in there.)
The sleep habits of teenagers.
Remember when your kids were little and you were all FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST GO TO SLEEP/STAY ASLEEP/SLEEP IN A LITTLE!? Then they become teenagers and they’re all “I’m not tired!” at night when all you want to do is snuggle with your sweetie on the couch and watch television. And then in the morning when it’s actually time to get up, those same teens who assured you that they were FINE, not even a little tired, why they are suddenly three years old again, except this time, instead of whining about how they don’t want to take a bath or whatever, they are not getting up, you can’t make them, go away. It just about takes an act of Congress to get Chickadee up and out on school mornings before she misses the bus (and boy howdy is she pleasant while that’s happening…), and usually I just let Monkey sleep in, but it’s gotten to the point where I even have to wake him up, lest he sleep all morning. And then my usually happy-go-lucky guy is all “I’m tired” and “I don’t feel good” and “why do I have to?” Fortunately, I can sort of gesture in the general direction of the shower and he reverts to his normally perky self while in there. Chickadee, on the other hand, was pissed off when I woke her up one day a couple of years ago, and I’m still waiting for her to forgive me.
Of course, only suggest to a teenager than they hit the sack early if you’re in desperate need of a good eye-rolling. Because they’re NOT TIRED.
Our fancy new bathroom scale.
I have lived a scale-free life for many years, and this was by design. If there’s a scale in the bathroom, I am likely to step on it. If I step on the scale, I am likely to become aggravated. Even though I am a reasonably intelligent human and aware that weight fluctuates and my weight is probably fine, something about the scale brings out every ounce (see what I did there…?) of body insecurity I possess. FABULOUS. But! We needed a scale, because we are currently following the not-putting-any-emphasis-on-your-weight-except-for-the-part-where-we-weigh-you-regularly plan with a certain teenager who needs to gain some weight. After weeks of comparison shopping, I ended up with a digital scale that stores user profiles to both recognize you when you step on it (how does it do that?? MAGIC!) and to display past weights for comparison.
You might think I could just have that scale around and never weigh myself on it, but you would be incorrect. I weigh myself on it. It’s VERY accurate, which means I can see exactly how much weight I gain when I drink my morning cup of coffee, for example. Not that I would do that more than two or three days in a row, of course. And I would never weigh myself in the morning and then again in the evening and get upset about the gain that I knew full well it would show, because how dumb would that be?
Nor would I try to set up a profile on it for the dog. That would be silly. And she doesn’t weigh enough for it to recognize her, anyway. I mean, I assume.
Writing 1500+ words about ridiculous stuff.